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?•  ^-  Q^tiA.o(iimj(_ 


AN 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


BY 


EDWARD  LIVINGSTON  TRUDEAU,  M.D. 


ILLUSTRATED 


GARDEN   CITY,   NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1916 


Copyright,  1915 
LEA  &  FEBIGER 


All  rights  of  translation  reserved 


DEDICATED 
TO  MY  DEAR  WIFE 

EVER  AT  MY  SIDE 

EVER  CHEERFUL  AND  HOPEFUL  AND  HELPFUL 

THROUGH  THESE  LONG  YEARS 

DURING  WHICH 

"  PLEASURE  AND  PAIN 
HAVE  FOLLOWED  EACH   OTHER 
LIKE  SUNSHINE  AND  RAIN." 


FOREWORD 

Mr.  Gilbert  K.  Chesterton,  in  his  review 
of  Mr.  Graham  Balfour's  "Life  of  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson",  says: 

"When  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  a  little  boy, 
Mr.  Graham  Balfour  tells  us,  he  once  made  the 
following  remark  to  his  mother:  'Mother,  I've 
drawed  a  man.  Shall  I  draw  his  soul  now'?  .  .  . 
The  only  biography  that  is  really  possible  is 
autobiography.  To  recount  the  actions  of  another 
man  is  not  biography,  it  is  zoology,  the  noting 
down  of  the  habits  of  a  new  and  outlandish  animal. 
It  may  fill  ten  volumes  with  anecdotes,  without 
once  touching  upon  his  life.  It  has  'drawed'  a 
man,  but  it  has  not  'drawed*  his  soul." 


(5) 


I 


I  HAVE  never  been  very  partial  to  autobiog- 
raphies, and  if  there  is  one  thing  I  thought  I 
would  never  do,  it  is  to  attempt  to  write  about 
my  own  life!  Nevertheless  here  I  am,  falling 
into  what  in  so  many  cases  has  seemed  to  me  in 
others  the  great  mistake  of  a  man's  trying  to 
describe  his  own  experiences  and  speak  of  his 
own  work,  instead  of  allowing  these  to  tell  their 
own  story,  or  letting  others  tell  it  after  he  is  dead. 
Autobiographies  must  of  necessity  run  peril- 
ously near  the  fatal  precipice  of  egoism,  and  too 
many  of  those  I  have  read  have  reminded  me  of 
the  plain  old  ladies  who  so  often  tell  us  what 
belles  they  were  in  their  youth,  and  what  con- 
quests they  achieved. 

Then  why  write?  First,  perhaps,  because 
many  autobiographies  are  certainly  of  intense 
interest,  instructive  and  inspiring  to  others,  and 
because  the  experiences  they  describe  are  in  a 
great  measure  known  to  the  writer  alone,  and 
must  perish  with  him;  and  because  many  of  my 
good  friends,  whom  I  trust,  tell  me  that  the  main 
facts  of  my  life  are  such  as  to  be  of  interest  to 
others,   and   to  prove  inspiring  and   stimulating 

(7) 


to  younger  men.  In  addition,  I  imagine  another 
reason  is  that  I  am  human,  and  that  as  a  man 
nears  the  end  of  the  earthly  journey,  and  "the 
evening  comes  and  the  shadows  lengthen,'*  and 
"the  work  is  done";  when  there  is  no  longer  any 
future  to  look  forward  to  in  this  world  and  much 
of  the  joy  of  life  has  disappeared  from  the  present, 
he  naturally  turns  his  face  not  unwillingly  to  the 
past,  and  is  not  at  all  averse  to  living  over  again 
for  others  some  of  the  days  of  sunshine  and 
shadow,  of  pleasure  and  pain,  and  of  strenuous 
activity  through  which  he  has  passed. 

I  was  born  in  New  York  City  on  October  5, 
1848.  I  had  a  markedly  medical  ancestry.  My 
father,  Dr.  James  Trudeau,  was  a  member  of  a 
well-known  New  Orleans  family,  and  my  mother's 
father.  Dr.  Frangois  Eloi  Berger,  was  a  French 
physician  whose  ancestors  were  physicians  for 
many  generations,  as  far  back  as  they  could  be 
traced.  My  mother,  Cephise  Berger,  was  Dr. 
Berger's  only  daughter.  I  had  a  brother  and  a 
sister,  both  older  than  myself.  My  father  and 
mother  separated  shortly  after  my  birth.  He  re- 
turned to  New  Orleans  with  my  sister,  and  when 
three  years  old  I  went  abroad  with  my  mother, 
my  brother  and  grandparents,  when  Dr.  Berger 
retired  from  his  extensive  New  York  practice, 
where  for  many  years  he  held  a  very  prominent 
place  in  the  early  medical  history  of  New  York 

City.       While     we     were     abroad     my     mother 

(8) 


obtained  a  divorce,  and  married  a  French  officer, 
a  Captain  F.  E.  Chuffart.  She  and  her  husband 
lived  in  Fontainebleau  together  until  her  death 
in  1900. 

I  can  remember  little  about  my  father.  I  know 
that  during  the  great  Civil  War  he  was  an  officer 
in  the  Southern  Army,  and  for  a  time  had  charge 
of  Island  No.  10;  and  that  he  was  wounded  and 
brought  back  to  New  Orleans,  where  he  partly 
recovered  and  practised  his  profession  for  a  few 
years  before  his  death.  Before  the  War  he  mar- 
ried a  Miss  Marie  Bringier,  who  belonged  to  a 
well-known  New  Orleans  family,  and  who  survived 
him,  dying  in  Baltimore  in  1909. 

After  her  death,  Miss  Felicie  Bringier,  her 
sister,  sent  me  a  large  oil  painting  of  my  father 
in  Indian  hunting  costume,  which  she  said  was 
painted  in  the  early  Forties  by  John  J.  Audubon. 
The  distinguished  naturalist  was  a  great  friend 
of  my  father's,  who  accompanied  him  on  many 
of  his  scientific  expeditions,  and  went  with  him 
on  the  Fremont  expedition  to  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains in  1 84 1.  Miss  Bringier  states  in  her  letters 
to  me  that  my  father  often  helped  Audubon  with 
the  anatomy  of  his  ornithology  work,  and  drew 
illustrations  of  birds  and  eggs  for  him. 

My  father  not  only  drew  and  painted  well, 
but  he  had  a  marked  talent  for  modelling  in  clay 
and  making  bas-reliefs,  and  I  have  in  my  pos- 
session some  of  his  work  cast  in  bronze.  I  re- 
member my  grandfather,  Dr.  Berger,  often  saying 

(9) 


that  my  father's  talent  for  caricature  had  done 
him  an  immeasurable  amount  of  harm  profes- 
sionally in  New  York,  for  he  made  a  set  of 
statuette  caricatures  of  the  medical  faculty, 
which  were  so  well  done  and  such  telling  carica- 
tures that  many  of  the  gentlemen  never  forgave 
him. 

The  love  of  wild  nature  and  of  hunting  was 
a  real  passion  with  my  father — a  passion  which 
ruined  his  professional  career  in  New  Orleans, 
for  he  was  constantly  absent  on  hunting  expedi- 
tions. As  mentioned  in  Miss  Bringier's  letters, 
in  1 841  he  spent  over  two  years  with  the  Osage 
Indians,  who  presented  him  with  the  buckskin 
suit  in  which  he  was  arrayed  when  Audubon  on 
his  return  painted  the  portrait  which  is  now  in 
my  possession.  This  certainly  could  not  have 
helped  him  retain  his  practice. 

It  would  seem  that  from  my  father  as  well 
as  from  my  mother's  ancestors  I  must  have 
inherited  a  strong  leaning  toward  medicine  as 
a  profession,  for  after  many  vacillations  and 
failures  in  early  life,  this  inherited  bent  guided 
me  to  the  choice  of  a  medical  career. 

This  same  love  of  wild  nature  and  hunting, 
which  was  a  passion  in  my  father,  was  reproduced 
in  his  son,  for  when  stricken  with  tuberculosis 
in  1872  it  drove  me,  in  spite  of  all  the  urgent 
protests  of  my  friends  and  physicians,  to  bury 
myself  in  the  Adirondacks — then  an  unbroken 
wilderness,    and    considered    a    most    dangerous 

(10) 


climate  for  a  chest  invalid — in  order  to  lead 
an  open-air  life  in  the  great  forest,  alone  with 
Nature  and  those  who  were  dear  to  me. 

It  is  curious  that  this  passion  for  the  wild  out- 
of-doors  existence  which  wrecked  my  father's 
professional  career,  saved  my  life  by  enabling 
me  to  live  contentedly  in  a  wilderness  during  the 
first  five  years  of  my  illness  just  the  sort  of  life 
that  was  best  adapted  for  my  restoration  to 
health. 

Both  of  my  sons  apparently  inherited  the  same 
leaning  toward  medicine  and  the  love  of  wild 
nature  that  I  did,  for,  in  spite  of  my  suggestion 
that  they  take  up  some  other  career,  both  chose 
medicine  as  a  profession,  and  both  have  loved 
the  woods  and  the  hunting  as  their  father  and 
grandfather  did  before  them;  and  some  of  the 
happiest  days  of  my  life  have  been  spent  in  the 
woods  with  them  and  their  mother. 

The  following  extracts  from  letters  of  Miss 
Felicie  Bringier  contain  all  I  know  about  my 
father's  portrait  now  in  my  possession. 

"Baltimore,  Md.,  October  16,  1910. 

"One  of  the  things  I  mentioned  to  your  boy 
was  your  father's  stay  with  the  Osage  Indians 
during  two  years  (in  1841),  and  about  the  por- 
trait in  Indian  costume  (painted  by  John  J. 
Audubon),  the  one  you  write  of.  I  will  surely 
do  all  in  my  power  that  you  should  have  it; 
none  has  more  right  to  it  than  you  and  your 

(11) 


children.  It  is  not  in  Baltimore,  as  we  were 
compelled  to  intrust  most  of  our  belongings  to 
the  care  of  our  relatives  in  New  Orleans  when 
we  came  here  to  visit  my  sister,  not  knowing 
how  long  we  would  remain.  Our  cousin  Mr. 
L.  A.  Bringier  has  the  portrait.  I  will  write  to 
him  very  soon.     Believe  me, 

"Very  truly  yours, 

"Felicie  Bringier." 


"Hills  Forest,  Md., 
"July  28,  1911. 

"Dear  Eddie: 

"I  was  so  delighted  to  hear  that  the  portrait 
had  got  to  you  in  good  condition  and  was  a  source 
of  pleasure.  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  tell  you  the 
date  when  it  was  painted;  but  from  some  state- 
ments of  your  dear  father's  that  I  recall,  I  should 
surmise  it  was  in  the  forties,  as  he  was  with 
Fremont  on  his  expedition  to  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains, and  stopped  on  his  return  with  the  Osage 
Indians  (where  he  remained  two  years),  they 
having  sent  a  deputy  of  their  young  bloods  to 
meet  and  invite  him  to  visit  their  settlement 
when  they  learned  that  a  Trudeau  was  of  the 
party.  Your  great-grandfather,  Mr.  Zenon  Tru- 
deau, when  Governor  of  'Les  Illinois',  in  sailing 
down  the  Mississippi  in  his  barge  from  St.  Louis 
to  New  Orleans,  had  rescued  an  Osage  chief 
who  had  been  wounded  in  a  fight  on  the  banks 
of   the   river,  taken   him   to  his  plantation,  had 

(12) 


him  cared  for,  and  when  restored  to  health, 
helped  him  to  get  back  to  his  wigwam  and 
friends.  On  leaving  your  parent  he  had  said: 
'Indian  never  forgets';  therefore  your  father 
was  honored.  He  always  mentioned  that  his 
stay  with  the  tribe  had  been  most  agreeable 
and  enjoyable,  affording  him  an  opportunity 
to  study  their  customs  and  manners,  learn  their 
language  (which  he  spoke  quite  fluently)  and 
an  ability  to  ride  and  use  their  arms  as  they  did. 
The  costume  with  which  he  is  represented,  was 
embroidered  and  presented  to  him  by  the  squaws 
of  the  Osages,  and  may  now  be  in  one  of  the 
French  Museums,  if  the  'Prince  de  Joinville,* 
who  was  quite  a  visitor  and  friend  of  your  uncle, 
Mr.  Jules  de  Gay  Lussee  (who  was  at  the  time 
a  resident  of  New  York  City),  kept  his  word 
and  deposited  it  there.  I  have  heard  your  father 
relate  that  he  actually  begged  it  of  him  for  the 
purpose;  as  your  father  was  loath  to  part  with 
it,  as  can  well  be  conceived. 

"Audubon  was  also  with  Fremont's  expedi- 
tion; they  hunted  and  painted  much  together. 
Audubon  mentions  your  father  frequently  in 
his  work;  several  birds  are  named  for  him.  He 
often  told  us  that  most  of  the  anatomy  work  of 
the  ornithology  was  his.  If  my  memory  is  cor- 
rect, Audubon  died  in  1850;  that  is  why  I  have 
come  to  my  conclusions. 

"Truly  yours, 

"F6LICIE  Bringier." 

(13) 


II 

WE  arrived  in  Paris  in  1851,  and  my  brother 
and  I  lived  there  with  our  grandparents  for 
nearly  fifteen  years,  when  we  all  returned  to  New 
York  in  1865  at  the  close  of  the  war. 

While  in  Paris  my  brother  and  I  were  sent  to 
a  French  school,  where  I  learned  little  in  the  way 
of  lessons  and  a  great  deal  that  was  bad  for  me. 
The  influence  of  the  French  school  at  that  time 
was  upon  the  whole  bad  for  the  formation  of  the 
boys*  characters.  Cowardice,  lying,  cheating  and 
deception  of  all  kinds  were  in  vogue  among  them 
and  little  frowned  upon  by  the  masters.  The 
boys'  main  idea  was  not  to  get  caught;  it  mat- 
tered not  what  methods  you  employed  to  escape 
that  calamity. 

Mrs.  Louis  Livingston,  who  in  after  years 
befriended  me  to  such  good  purpose  when  alone 
in  New  York,  brought  her  two  sons,  Lou  and 
Jim  Livingston,  to  Paris,  and  my  grandfather, 
who  thought  she  spoiled  them  and  that  they 
needed  toughening,  advised  her  to  send  them  to 
the  same  school  where  my  brother  and  I  were. 
The  Livingstons  were  a  fair  sample  of  wild  Ameri- 
can   lads,    and    they    soon    had    thrashed   many 

(15) 


of  the  French  boys  so  unmercifully  that  Mrs. 
Livingston  was  sent  for  by  the  principal  and 
implored  to  place  them  elsewhere.  I  can  well 
remember  the  scene:  the  indignant  principal, 
the  astonished  and  distressed  mother,  the  lamb- 
like offenders.  I  remember  the  distracted  prin- 
cipal saying: 

"Mais,  Madame,  Monsieur  le  docteur  Berger 
m'a  dit  que  ces  jeunes-gens  etaient  el^ves  dans 
du  coton!!  Eh  bien,  mon  Dieu,  ce  sont  de  vrais 
sauvages!" 

In  after  years  the  Livingston  boys  lived  up 
to  their  early  reputation  for  wildness,  imparting 
some  of  it  to  me  in  the  eyes  of  my  staid  New 
York  friends  and  relatives,  and  it  is  true  we  had 
many  thrilling  adventures  together  as  young 
men.  They  proved  true  friends,  however,  and 
when  I  was  taken  ill  in  1873  it  was  Lou  Living- 
ston who  took  me  to  the  Adirondacks  and  re- 
mained with  me  for  a  month.  When  he  was 
obliged  to  go  back  to  New  York,  Ed.  Harri- 
man  and  Jim  Livingston  each  came  up  in  turn 
until  I  was  well  enough  to  return  to  my  family. 
From  the  first  I  have  had  the  best  friends  a  man 
ever  had. 

My  grandfather's  apartment  was  in  the  Rue 
Matignon,  just  off  the  Champs  Elysees.  It  had 
a  "porte  cochere"  entrance,  after  the  manner  of 
the  better  class  of  French  apartment  houses, 
where  carriages  drove  in  to  turn  around  or  to 
wait  in  the  large  courtyard  at  the  back.     We 

(16) 


were  on  the  second  floor;  the  first  floor  was 
always  hired  by  the  French  Government  as  the 
residence  of  one  of  the  Generals  of  the  French 
army. 

This  fact  was  of  great  interest  in  my  life, 
for  the  General's  horses  and  orderlies,  with  all 
of  whom  I  was  always  on  intimate  terms,  occu- 
pied the  stables  at  the  back  of  the  big  square 
courtyard.  Whenever  a  military  review  or  any 
public  fete  took  place,  requiring  the  official  pres- 
ence of  the  General,  the  courtyard  was  suddenly 
thronged  with  cavalrymen  of  various  types, 
generally  lancers  or  "cuirassiers,"  and  our  excite- 
ment was  intense  when  in  the  midst  of  the  clatter 
of  sabres  and  horses'  hoofs  the  General's  horse, 
caparisoned  with  gold  trappings,  was  led  out 
into  the  middle  of  the  court.  Shortly  after- 
wards the  General  himself,  resplendent  in  gold 
lace,  covered  with  decorations  and  wearing  white 
buckskin  riding  trousers,  lustrous  black  boots 
and  a  plumed  hat,  would  mount  the  prancing 
horse  and  the  whole  cavalcade  would  clatter 
out  of  the  courtyard,  through  the  "porte  cochdre," 
into  the  street — to  our  intense  delight. 

General  Bazaine  for  many  years  occupied  the 
apartment,  and  after  the  manner  of  boys,  I  grew 
as  intimate  with  him  as  such  a  grave  man  would 
allow  an  admiring  boy  to  become. 

Those  were  halcyon  days  for  General  Bazaine 

as  well  as  for  his  Emperor,  Napoleon  III,  for  the 

French   Empire  was  in   the   zenith   of  its  glory 

(17) 


at  that  time.  General  Bazaine,  prancing  at  the 
head  of  the  French  soldiers  at  one  of  the  gorgeous 
reviews  in  the  Champs  de  Mars,  where  all  Paris 
flocked  to  see  the  Emperor  review  the  troops, 
was,  however,  more  within  his  capabilities  than 
when  suddenly  brought  face  to  face  with  the 
grim  game  of  war  and  such  a  formidable  foe  as 
the  German  army.  When,  in  1871,  through 
General  Bazaine's  tactical  errors  or  treachery, 
Sedan  was  cut  ofif  and  surrounded,  and  Napoleon 
III  and  the  French  army  surrendered  to  the 
Germans,  leaving  France  and  Paris  at  the  mercy 
of  the  invaders,  I  could  not  but  feel  a  pang  of 
grief  for  my  old  friend,  the  General,  who  had 
seemed  so  magnificent  and  unconquerable  to  my 
admiring  boy's  eyes. 

My  grandfather  must  have  rendered  some  dis- 
tinguished service  to  some  member  of  the  Imperial 
Court  or  of  the  Imperial  Family,  for  the  Emperor 
decorated  him  with  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor  while  we  were  in  Paris.  I  was  greatly 
excited  one  day  when  a  gorgeous  equerry  rode  into 
our  courtyard  and  handed  the  butler  a  parcel: 
when  I  pressed  the  butler  for  an  explanation  he 
told  me  that  it  was  a  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor 
the  Emperor  had  sent  my  grandfather.  I  was 
shown  the  wonderful  cross  in  its  box  by  my  grand- 
mother, and  I  noticed  my  grandfather  afterwards 
always  wore  in  his  buttonhole  a  little  red  ribbon 
decoration.  I  never,  however,  learned  just  for 
what   service   he   had   received   this   distinction, 

(18) 


though  I  often  asked  him  why  he  wore  the  red 
ribbon;  but  the  old  gentleman  would  only  smile 
and  say,  "Pour  faire  parler  les  curieux,  mon 
enfant!" 

Our  apartment  was  well  fitted  for  small  enter- 
tainments, and  was  a  meeting-place  for  many 
Americans  travelling  abroad  as  well  as  for  those 
who  were  living  in  Paris  as  we  were.  Cordial 
relations  always  existed  between  my  grandparents 
and  the  American  Embassy. 

Our  parlor  was  lighted  with  beautiful  sperm-oil 
lamps  on  ordinary  occasions,  but  when  company 
was  expected  to  dinner  or  in  the  evening  the  candles 
in  the  gilt  candelabra  in  the  center  of  the  room 
were  always  lighted,  producing  a  brilliant  illumi- 
nation. I  speak  of  this  because  I  remember  dis- 
tinctly some  gentleman  coming  from  the  Embassy 
one  day  and  showing  my  grandfather  and  grand- 
mother a  curious  little  glass  lamp  which  he  lighted, 
and  everyone  stood  about  and  admired  the  clear, 
strong  light  it  gave.  The  lamp  was  exactly  like 
the  common  glass  lamps  one  sees  everywhere  in 
country  homes  nowadays,  even  to  the  piece  of 
red  flannel  in  the  oil ;  but  to  us  it  was  a  weird  and 
strange  object  then  and  everyone  was  impressed 
with  the  bright  light  it  gave.  This  gentleman  told 
us  that  the  lamp  burned  kerosene,  which  could 
be  pumped  from  the  earth  in  America  in  great 
quantity,  and  that  many  far-seeing  men  had  pre- 
dicted it  would  entirely  supersede  the  sperm  oil, 
as  the  supply  was  unlimited,  its  cost  was  trifling, 

(19) 


and  the  light  much  stronger  than  that  of  whale 
oil.  My  grandfather  was  dubious,  however, 
about  the  safety  of  this  new  product,  and  we  kept 
on  with  sperm-oil  lamps  and  candles  as  long  as 
we  remained  in  Paris. 

The  Civil  War  brought  all  Americans  in  Paris 
who  sympathized  with  the  North  closer  together, 
and  the  American  Embassy  became  more  a  meet- 
ing place  for  them  than  ever.  Mr.  Dayton  was 
Ambassador  at  the  time  I  write  of.  His  son,  a 
lad  of  my  own  age,  "Ned"  Dayton,  I  knew  inti- 
mately and  we,  together  with  many  American 
boys,  met  in  the  Champs  Elysees  daily  and  played 
games  there  together.  Great  were  the  discussions 
of  war  news,  but  as  we  were  all  on  the  Northern 
side  there  were  no  battles  to  speak  of  on  the 
playground. 

We  never  saw  anything  of  any  of  the  few  Ameri- 
can Southern  boys  then  in  Paris,  except  when  we 
sailed  our  toy  boats  in  the  large  basins  of  both  the 
fountains  in  front  of  the  Tuileries.  There  we  had 
to  meet,  and  the  Confederate  ships,  which  were 
greatly  in  the  minority,  were  not,  I  am  afraid, 
always  treated  strictly  according  to  international 
laws  of  warfare  by  the  owners  of  the  more  numer- 
ous craft  which  flew  the  stars  and  stripes. 

My  boat,  in  addition  to  a  big  cannon  which 
fired  real  powder  and  shot  with  a  fuse  which  hardly 
ever  went  off  at  the  right  time,  carried  at  the  tip 
end  of  its  bowsprit  a  device  which  I  thought  cal- 
culated to  damage  greatly  the  enemy.     It  was  a 

(20) 


large  steel  ink  eraser  which  I  had  sharpened  with 
the  utmost  care,  so  that  when  my  craft  ran  afoul 
of  the  enemy  the  ropes  and  sails  would  be  cut 
and  torn  by  this  sharp  weapon.  The  great  trouble 
with  this  arrangement,  however,  was  that,  as  it 
was  impossible  to  steer  the  little  vessels  accurately, 
my  boat  several  times  ran  afoul  of  and  damaged 
friendly  vessels,  and  brought  much  trouble  on  its 
owner  by  so  doing. 

It  was  about  the  time  I  write  of — 1864  — 
when  Messrs.  Slidell  and  Mason  were  sent  over 
by  the  Confederate  States  to  try  to  induce  France 
and  England  to  recognize  them,  and  we  all  knew 
when  these  gentlemen  arrived  in  Paris.  We 
boys  soon  found  out  that  Mr.  Slidell  late  in  the 
afternoon  walked  through  the  Champs  Elysees 
on  his  way  home  from  the  Palais  Royal,  and  we 
tried  in  a  feeble  way  to  express  our  disapproval  of 
him  by  standing  together  with  our  boats  under 
our  arms  and  waving  as  much  as  possible  the  Stars 
and  Stripes  on  the  little  boats  as  he  went  by. 

Mr.  Slidell,  as  I  remember  him,  was  a  stout, 
elderly  man  with  a  florid  complexion  and  a  large 
white  moustache.  On  one  memorable  afternoon 
we  were  returning  from  the  pond  with  our  boats 
when  we  espied  Mr.  Slidell  coming  toward  us  on 
his  way  home.  As  he  passed  we  all  waved  the 
little  flags  on  the  boats  violently,  but  more  than 
this  we  dared  not  do.  He  walked  by  us  with  a 
scowl  on  his  face,  and  we  all  giggled,  of  course.  I 
was  always  somewhat  more  venturesome  than  my 

(21) 


fellows  and  frequently  paid  the  penalty.  After 
Mr.  Slidell  had  passed  us  and  was  well  down  the 
block  I  put  my  boat  hastily  on  the  ground,  took 
a  dozen  steps  toward  the  retreating  figure,  and 
drawing  from  my  pocket  my  trusty  "catapult" 
— a  weapon  dear  to  all  boys*  hearts  from  time 
immemorial — I  adjusted  a  large  piece  of  hard 
putty  in  the  little  leather  sling,  drew  the  strong 
elastic  as  far  back  as  I  could,  measured  the  eleva- 
tion with  my  eye,  and  let  go  the  sling.  The  projec- 
tile became  invisible  as  it  described  a  slight  upward 
curve,  and  then  to  my  horror  I  saw  it  bounce  off 
the  middle  of  Mr.  Slidell's  broad  back.  I  was 
terror-stricken,  and  thrusting  the  sling-shot  in 
my  pocket  I  put  on  an  unconcerned  air  and  walked 
toward  the  boys,  who  had  not  noticed  this  episode. 
As  I  neared  the  group  one  looked  up.  I  saw  his 
face  suddenly  change,  and  he  called  out,  "Run!" 
At  the  same  moment  a  heavy  hand  seized  me  by 
the  coat  collar  and  a  large  umbrella  came  down 
on  my  head  and  shoulders  with  a  resounding 
whack.  Quick  as  a  flash  I  wriggled  out  of  the 
coat  and  ran.  As  I  turned  to  look  back  I  saw  the 
excited  old  gentleman,  purple  with  rage,  beating 
my  coat  with  his  umbrella,  and  heard  his  sulphurous 
remarks  to  the  boys  who,  too  awed  to  laugh  this 
time,  kept  at  a  respectful  distance.  I  waited  to 
see  no  more,  but  in  my  shirt  sleeves  sped  straight 
home  at  top  speed,  seeing  in  my  imagination  the 
minions  of  the  law  in  pursuit  and  a  dungeon  cell 
awaiting  me. 

(22) 


When  I  reached  my  room  in  safety  I  began  to 
reflect  upon  the  enormity  of  my  offence,  and  con- 
cluded I  would  say  nothing  about  it  at  home  unless 
questioned.  It  occurred  to  me,  however,  that  it 
would  be  hard  to  explain  the  absence  of  the  coat, 
which,  with  the  tell-tale  catapult  in  the  pocket, 
was  still  in  Mr.  Slidell's  possession;  and  then  I 
remembered  my  grandfather  was  never  very  severe 
with  me,  so  I  decided  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it. 
I  crept  downstairs,  and  by  peeking  through  the 
keyhole  ascertained  that  the  old  gentleman  was  in 
his  usual  seat  in  the  parlor,  reading  the  newspaper; 
so  I  knocked  gently,  walked  in  and  climbed  up  in 
his  lap.  The  confession  followed!  I  saw  the  cor- 
ners of  my  grandfather's  mouth  twitch,  while  he 
told  me  I  had  been  a  bad  boy  and  what  I  had  done 
was  very  wrong;  to  go  upstairs  and  he  would 
decide  what  punishment  I  should  have. 

The  punishment  never  came,  and  to  my  intense 
relief  no  reference  was  made  to  the  incident  at 
dinner.  The  following  evening  was  Saturday, 
the  usual  reception  evening  at  the  Embassy,  and 
my  grandfather  told  me  he  wanted  me  to  accom- 
pany him  there.  This  gave  me  quite  a  shock,  and 
I  had  some  misgivings  as  to  what  was  going  to 
happen,  but  went  as  cheerfully  as  I  could.  When 
the  door  of  the  parlors  of  the  Embassy  was  thrown 
open,  and  my  grandfather  was  announced  in  a 
loud  voice  by  the  liveried  butler,  a  hush  at  once 
fell  over  the  assembled  guests.  Then  Miss  Dayton, 
in  a  beautiful  evening  dress,  walked  rapidly  across 

(23) 


the  floor,  took  me  by  the  hand  and  said,  "So 
you  are  the  young  man  who  shot  at  Mr.  Slidell 
on  neutral  territory.  Come  and  let  me  introduce 
you  to  my  father!"  Mr.  Dayton  received  me  very 
cordially,  but  he  was  too  much  of  a  diplomat  to 
express  any  opinion  as  to  what  I  had  done.  Many 
of  the  guests  were  not  as  cautious,  however,  and 
shook  my  hand  and  patted  me  on  the  back;  and 
the  men  said,  "Bully  for  you!"  and  the  women 
smiled  at  me  with  every  sign  of  approval.  Cer- 
tainly I  was  the  lion  of  the  evening  on  that  occa- 
sion; but  I  never  saw  or  heard  anything  more  of 
my  coat  or  of  Mr.  Slidell. 

Shortly  after  this  we  boys  had  another  war 
excitement.  The  news  reached  us  that  the  United 
States  Cruiser  Kearsarge  had  attacked  the  famous 
privateer  Alabama  off  the  coast  of  France  and 
sunk  her.  The  next  day,  at  the  pond  in  the  garden 
of  the  Tuileries,  the  United  States  vessels  were  in 
full  force  and  more  bedecked  with  Stars  and  Stripes 
than  ever,  but  no  Confederate  ship  put  in  an 
appearance  on  that  day. 


(24) 


M' 


III 

Y  grandfather's  health  had  been  steadily 
failing,  and  after  the  end  of  the  war  we 
left  Paris  and  came  over  to  New  York,  where  my 
grandfather  had  very  many  friends  and  my  grand- 
mother many  relatives.  Mr.  James  Aspinwall,  my 
grandmother's  brother,  had  always  managed  Dr. 
Berger's  affairs  and  my  grandfather  was  greatly 
dependent  upon  him.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Aspinwall 
and  their  family  of  two  girls  and  three  boys  then 
lived  on  Eighteenth  Street  just  out  of  Fourth 
Avenue,  and  for  the  remaining  years  of  my  grand- 
father's and  grandmother's  lives  we  resided  in 
this  neighborhood  so  as  to  be  near  them.  We  spent 
the  winters  in  New  York,  and  for  the  summer 
months  we  went  to  Nyack,  on  the  Hudson,  where 
the  Aspinwalls  had  a  country  place,  and  much  of 
my  time  was  passed  with  my  newly  found  cousins 
and  their  friends.  When  I  arrived  in  New  York 
I  spoke  only  broken  English,  and  I  remember 
wondering  why  my  girl  cousins  laughed  when  I 
said  "Ze  English  language  is  a  very  hard  language 
to  prononciate!" 

America  was  a  revelation  to  me.     Everything 
was  new  and  full  of  intense  interest.    The  thing 

(25) 


that  above  all  made  the  deepest  impression  upon 
me,  however,  was  the  freedom  given  to  young 
people,  and  especially  the  freedom  between  young 
people  of  both  sexes.  Although  I  was  seventeen 
I  had  known  little  or  nothing  of  young  girls  in 
France.  Whenever  I  met  any  of  them  or  spoke 
to  them  it  was  always  in  the  presence  of  some  older 
person,  but  young  men  and  women  were  never 
given  any  opportunity  for  free  interchange  of 
ideas  and  impressions,  or  allowed  to  enjoy  harmless 
pastimes  together.  To  find  myself  all  at  once 
thrown  intimately  and  unrestrictedly  with  my 
girl  cousins  and  their  girl  friends,  in  winter  to 
walk  and  ride  and  dance  and  skate  with  them,  and 
in  summer  to  drive  and  sail  and  row  and  swim 
and  dance  again  with  them,  was  a  new  revelation 
to  me,  and  I  think  I  made  the  most  of  my  oppor- 
tunities. 

Those  were  joyous  play-days  indeed,  especially 
in  the  glorious  summer  time  spent  at  Nyack,  when 
I  had  a  horse  and  wagon  and  a  sail-boat,  but  no  les- 
sons, and  the  absence  of  all  the  young  men  during 
the  daytime  at  their  business  in  New  York  gave 
me  an  unrestricted  field  with  the  girls  and  brought 
my  wagon  and  sail-boat  into  constant  requisition. 
I  had  many  love  affairs,  and  I  am  afraid  I  was 
rarely  off  with  the  old  love  before  I  was  on  with  the 
new.  But  they  were  not  very  serious  love  affairs, 
though  they  often  seemed  so  to  me  at  the  time. 

It  was  on  a  trip  to  Nyack  that  I  met  my  wife. 
My    cousin,    Minnie    Aspinwall,    had    frequently 

(26) 


described  her  dearest  friend,  Lottie  Beare,  to  me 
in  such  glowing  terms  that  I  was  impatient  to  meet 
her.  My  cousin  Minnie  and  I  had  arranged  that 
we  should  go  up  to  Nyack  together  that  day. 
When  I  called  for  her  on  Eighteenth  Street  I 
found  her  talking  to  a  tall,  very  slender  young 
woman,  dressed  in  black,  whom  she  at  once  intro- 
duced to  me  as  Miss  Lottie  Beare. 

Minnie  informed  me  Miss  Beare  was  to  accom- 
pany us  on  the  boat  to  Nyack  to  spend  a  few  days 
with  her  at  their  country  house,  and  we  all  started 
at  once.  On  the  boat  I  talked  to  both  the  girls, 
and  though  Miss  Beare  was  pleasant  enough  I 
thought  her  cold  and  dignified.  When  we  reached 
Nyack  we  decided  to  walk  to  the  Aspinwall  house, 
which  was  on  a  high  hill.  I  seized  Miss  Beare's 
travelling  bag  with  alacrity  and  we  started.  It 
was  a  hot  afternoon  and  the  hill  was  long  and 
steep,  the  bag  large  and  heavy,  and  Miss  Beare 
did  not  seem  to  me  very  gracious.  When  we 
reached  the  house  she  at  once  went  to  her  room, 
and  my  cousin  rushed  back  to  me  and  said, 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  Lottie  Beare?" 
and  I  answered: 

"I  don't  know  much  about  Miss  Beare,  but  I 
can  say  positively  that  she  has  an  enormously 
heavy  travelling  bag." 

Nevertheless  it  was  the  tall,  slender  girl  in  black, 
with  the  heavy  travelling  bag,  who  soon  inspired 
me  with  a  love  which  made  me  in  time  give  up 
all  the  wild  mode  of  life  into  which  I  was  fast  slip- 

(27) 


ping  in  New  York,  and  work  for  three  years  to 
obtain  a  medical  degree,  and  for  a  lifetime  to  try 
to  be  worthy  of  her.  I  am  often  asked  if  I  would 
be  willing  to  live  my  life  over  again,  and  as  I 
look  back  on  most  of  it  I  can  say  very  positively, 
"I  have  my  doubts;"  but  that  part  which  has 
been  lived  in  contact  with  the  "tall  and  slender  girl 
with  the  heavy  travelling  bag"  I  would  gladly  live 
over  again  indefinitely.  Miss  Beare,  however,  did 
not  for  a  long  time  look  on  my  advances  with 
favor,  and  I  came  perilously  near  going  to  the 
dogs  in  New  York  in  the  meantime. 

My  sister  had  come  up  from  New  Orleans  and 
was  living  with  us,  and  my  brother  soon  found 
employment  with  a  business  firm.  I  began  to 
think  I  must  settle  on  some  kind  of  work  soon, 
and  the  glamor  of  the  war  must  have  still  been 
in  the  air,  for  I  decided,  for  some  unknown  reason, 
to  go  into  the  United  States  Navy.  Another 
uncle  of  mine,  Mr.  William  Aspinwall,  at  that 
time  had  influence  with  the  Government  in 
Washington,  and  in  order  to  please  my  grandfather 
and  also,  I  think,  to  get  me  away  from  New  York, 
he  promised  to  secure  for  me  an  appointment  as 
midshipman.  So  it  came  about  that  I  was  packed 
off  to  a  preparatory  school  at  Newport,  as  the 
Naval  Academy  and  the  old  ship  Constitution,  on 
which  the  cadets  lived,  were  then  at  Newport. 
I  was  just  about  to  enter  the  Academy  when 
an  unexpected  event  brought  about  an  entire 
change  in  my  plans. 

(28) 


My  brother's  health  began  to  fail  from  the 
time  he  took  the  office  position,  and  he  was  obliged 
to  give  up  work.  From  childhood  he  had  been 
delicate,  having  a  congenital  heart  trouble,  and 
any  over-exertion,  excitement  or  fatigue  caused 
his  heart's  action  to  become  irregular  and  his 
nails  and  lips  to  turn  blue.  For  this  reason,  though 
some  years  younger  than  he  was,  I  had  always 
cared  for  him  and  helped  him  and  fought  his 
battles  with  the  French  boys  at  school,  who  took 
advantage  of  his  lack  of  strength  to  torment  him. 
He,  on  the  other  hand,  was  a  very  strong,  unselfish 
and  beautiful  character,  deeply  religious,  and  con- 
stantly trying  to  help  me  in  the  straight  and  nar- 
row path  from  which  I  was  apt  to  wander.  He 
always  insisted  on  our  saying  our  prayers  and 
reading  the  Bible  together  daily,  and  it  was  through 
his  influence  that  I  joined  him  and  that  we  were 
confirmed  together  in  the  American  Episcopal 
Chapel  in  Paris  by  Bishop  Mcllvain. 

We  were  much  closer  to  each  other  than  most 
brothers  are,  and  as  soon  as  he  found  he  was  ill 
he  came  straight  to  see  me  in  Newport.  I  was 
shocked  at  his  appearance,  and  when  he  told 
me  the  doctor  said  he  had  consumption  I  at  once 
threw  up  my  appointment  and  returned  with 
him  to  my  grandfather's  house. 

My  brother  had  a  rapidly  progressive  type  of 
tuberculosis  and  my  time  was  soon  entirely  taken 
up  in  caring  for  his  needs.  We  had  no  trained 
nurses  in  those  days,  and  I  took  entire  care  of 

(29) 


him  from  the  time  he  was  taken  ill  in  September 
until  he  died  on  December  23,  1865.  We  occupied 
the  same  room  and  sometimes  the  same  bed.  I 
bathed  him  and  brought  his  meals  to  him,  and 
when  he  felt  well  enough  to  go  downstairs  I 
carried  him  up  and  down  on  my  back,  and  I 
tried  to  amuse  and  cheer  him  through  the  long 
days  of  fever  and  sickness.  My  sister  and  grand- 
mother often  sat  with  him  in  the  daytime  and 
allowed  me  to  go  out  for  exercise  and  change,  but 
he  soon  became  very  dependent  upon  me  and  I 
had  to  be  with  him  day  and  night.  The  doctor 
called  once  a  week  to  see  him  and  usually  left  some 
new  cough  medicine,  but  the  cough  grew  steadily 
worse.  Not  only  did  the  doctor  never  advise 
any  precautions  to  protect  me  against  infection, 
but  he  told  me  repeatedly  never  to  open  the  win- 
dows, as  it  would  aggravate  the  cough;  and  I 
never  did,  until  toward  the  end  my  brother 
was  so  short  of  breath  that  he  asked  for  fresh 
air. 

In  the  light  of  our  present  knowledge  as  to  the 
mode  of  infection  in  tuberculosis,  I  shudder  to 
think  of  what  condition  that  room  must  have  been 
in.  Even  my  vigorous  young  body  during  the 
last  month  of  my  brother's  illness  began  to  show 
the  ill  effects  of  the  constant  confinement  and 
the  prolonged  mental  and  physical  strain.  How 
strange  that,  after  helping  stifle  my  brother  and 
infect  myself  through  such  teaching  as  was  then 
in  vogue,  I  should  have  lived  to  save  my  own  life 

(30) 


and  that  of  many  others  by  the  simple  expedient 
of  an  abundance  of  fresh  air! 

I  remember  that  during  the  last  week  he  lived 
I  had  to  drink  green  tea  every  night  in  order  to 
keep  myself  awake,  but  I  held  out  to  the  end.  He 
died  one  night,  and  after  all  I  had  seen  him  suffer 
the  first  feeling  I  experienced  was  one  of  thank- 
fulness that  he  was  at  rest. 

This  was  my  first  introduction  to  tuberculosis 
and  to  death,  with  which  I  had  never  come  in 
contact  before.  Little  I  knew  then  how  many 
hundreds  of  such  death-bed  scenes  I  should 
attend  in  years  to  come,  in  a  life  which  has  been 
spent  in  the  midst  of  a  perpetual  epidemic  of 
tuberculosis. 

It  was  my  first  great  sorrow.  It  nearly  broke 
my  heart,  and  I  have  never  ceased  to  feel  its 
influence.  In  after  years  it  developed  in  me  an 
unquenchable  sympathy  for  all  tuberculosis 
patients — a  sympathy  which  I  hope  has  grown  no 
less  through  a  lifetime  spent  in  trying  to  express 
it  practically.  Even  now  I  love  to  think  that 
my  work  has  been  in  a  measure  a  tribute  from  me 
to  the  brother  I  loved  so  well. 

For  many  months,  in  spite  of  the  buoyancy  of 
spirits  which  was  ever  natural  to  me,  I  felt  like 
one  who  is  stunned  by  a  blow  on  the  head,  and  I 
tried  to  forget  my  heartache  by  plunging  into  all 
sorts  of  occupations  and  amusements.  My  cousins 
did  all  they  could  to  cheer  me;  my  good  friend, 
Mrs.  Louis  Livingston,  invited  me  to  her  house 

(31) 


and  was  like  a  mother  to  me  in  her  efforts  to  console 
me,  and  my  friends,  the  Livingston  lads,  took  me 
on  wild  expeditions  and  adventures  in  their 
efforts  to  divert  me.  After  all,  however,  I  got 
more  help  from  the  visits  I  paid  to  Miss  Beare 
at  her  home  on  Long  Island  than  from  anyone 
else.  Miss  Beare's  mother  and  sister  had  died 
a  couple  of  years  before,  and  she  and  her  father, 
an  Episcopal  clergyman,  who  had  been  in  charge 
of  the  church  at  Little  Neck  for  nearly  forty 
years,  lived  in  the  little  rectory  cottage  on  the 
turnpike  to  New  York. 

As  time  passed,  I  found  that  the  hours  spent 
in  the  little  cottage  by  the  roadside,  inhabited  by 
the  saintly  old  clergyman  and  presided  over  by  his 
charming  daughter,  who  helped  her  father  with 
his  parish  work,  played  the  organ  on  Sunday,  and 
was  beloved  by  the  rich  and  poor  of  the  neighbor- 
hood far  and  wide,  brought  more  peace  to  my 
sorrowing  spirit  than  I  could  find  anywhere  else. 

My  grandfather  died  February  i,  1866,  and 
my  sister  and  I  continued  to  live  with  my  grand- 
mother at  Nyack  during  the  summer,  and  in  New 
York  in  a  house  on  Twentieth  Street  during  the 
winter. 

All  this  time  I  was  trying  to  get  some  occupation 
and  settle  on  some  career.  I  studied  for  three 
months  in  the  School  of  Mines,  took  a  position  for 
awhile  in  a  broker's  office,  and  tried  various 
other  occupations  spasmodically,  but  soon  gave 
them  up,  as  I  was  a  failure  at  everything  I  under- 

(32) 


took.  This,  I  think,  was  due  partly  to  my  lack 
of  interest  in,  and  fitness  for  the  work  I  started 
on,  and  partly  to  the  constant  temptations  to 
amuse  myself  with  my  friends  the  Livingstons, 
who  did  not  have  to  work  and  were  only  too  glad 
to  have  me  go  about  with  them.  Had  it  not  been 
for  my  love  for  Miss  Beare,  and  the  religious 
ideals  imbibed  from  childhood  from  my  good 
brother,  which  had  been  fanned  into  new  life  by 
the  influences  at  the  Little  Neck  cottage,  I  should 
certainly  have  fallen  into  a  life  of  amusement  and 
dissipation.  I  realized,  however,  that  if  I  was 
ever  to  win  the  girl  I  loved,  I  must  demonstrate 
my  ability  to  be  steady  enough  to  make  some 
sort  of  career  for  myself  and  earn  some  sort  of 
living. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  I  had  a  rupture 
with  my  grandmother  which  brought  things  to  a 
climax.  The  old  lady  and  I  had  never  got  on  well 
together,  and  had  had  many  battles  royal.  She 
knew  that  I  was  dependent  on  her,  for  my  grand- 
father had  left  most  of  his  property  in  trust  to 
her  for  her  lifetime.  By  his  will  a  small  trust  had 
also  been  created  for  me,  which  gave  me  about 
seven  hundred  dollars  income  a  year,  but  this 
was  only  about  enough  for  my  clothes  and  spend- 
ing money.  One  day  I  came  home  and  found 
someone  had  taken  what  seemed  to  me  unwarrant- 
able liberties  with  some  of  my  personal  property. 
I  taxed  my  grandmother  with  having  done  it, 
and  she  admitted  it  and  told  me  she  intended  to 

(33) 


do  as  she  pleased  in  her  own  house;  that  I  was 
entirely  dependent  upon  her  and  would  starve 
without  her.  I  certainly  was  in  a  white  rage  that 
day.  I  told  her  I  would  get  out  of  her  house  within 
an  hour,  and  that  I  never  would  take  another 
cent  from  her  as  long  as  I  lived;  and  I  never  did. 
I  went  straight  to  Union  Square  and  hired  a 
truckman  to  come  for  my  trunk,  which  I  packed 
hastily,  and  we  walked  from  house  to  house  look- 
ing for  a  boarding  place,  until  on  West  Eighteenth 
Street  I  found  a  hall  bedroom  on  the  fourth  floor 
at  eight  dollars  a  week,  which  I  took  at  once. 
Within  an  hour  I  was  sitting  on  my  trunk  in  the 
little  boarding-house  room,  wondering  what  to  do 
next.  I  decided  to  go  down  to  my  friends,  the 
Livingstons,  and  tell  them  what  had  happened. 
The  young  men  were  out,  so  I  went  up  to  Mrs. 
Livingston's  room  and  told  her.  She  was  as  kind 
as  ever  to  me.  She  told  me  she  owed  a  debt 
of  gratitude  to  my  grandfather  she  could  never 
repay,  and  that  she  would  be  only  too  happy  if 
I  would  come  and  make  my  home  with  them.  I 
was  overcome  with  gratitude,  but  too  proud  to 
accept  such  an  offer;  so  finally  she  pressed  on 
me  an  arrangement  which  I  was  only  too  glad 
to  acquiesce  in.  She  told  me  she  wanted  me  to 
have  some  sort  of  home  influence,  and  that  she 
would  always  have  a  place  set  for  me  at  her  dinner 
table,  and  I  could  come  or  not  as  I  chose  to  do 
each  day.  Mrs.  Livingston's  confidence  and 
motherly  interest,  the  many  interviews  with  her 

(34) 


in  the  little  sitting-room,  when  she  encouraged 
me  to  open  my  heart  to  her,  and  the  remembrance 
of  the  seat  always  ready  for  me  at  the  table,  many 
times  recalled  me  to  my  better  self  and  helped 
steady  me  in  those  days  of  reckless  youth,  when 
so  many  other  places  seemed  more  attractive 
than  the  little  hall  bedroom  in  the  boarding  house. 
Ever  afterwards,  although  I  frequently  visited 
my  grandmother  at  her  home  and  the  old  lady  in 
the  kindness  of  her  heart  did  all  she  could  to  have 
me  return  there,  I  always  declined  as  graciously 
as  I  could.  She  pressed  money  on  me  repeatedly, 
even  to  leaving  it  on  my  table  in  an  envelope  in 
my  little  hall  bedroom  at  the  boarding  house; 
but  though  I  needed  it  badly  I  always  returned 
it  with  thanks.  We  never  had  any  more  quarrels, 
and  our  relations  were  very  cordial  until  she  died 
suddenly  March  27th,  1870. 


(35) 


IV 

I  WAS  a  member  of  the  Union  Club  all  this  time 
and  had  many  friends  there  besides  the  Living- 
stons, who  led  easy,  gay  lives,  and  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  unless  I  did  something  radical  soon  I 
never  should  "pull  out"  or  do  any  work.  I  knew 
no  doctors  or  anyone  connected  with  a  medical 
college,  but  I  often  did  things  purely  on  impulse, 
which  came  to  me  as  a  sort  of  auto-suggestion, 
and  perhaps  the  blood  of  my  ancestors  was  the 
cause  of  the  auto-suggestion  this  time.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  in  the  fall  of  1868  I  decided  to  become 
a  student  in  the  College  of  Physicians  and  Sur- 
geons, and  matriculated. 

So  little  faith  did  my  friends  at  the  Club  have 
in  my  doing  any  work  at  all  that  I  remember  when 
my  decision  to  study  medicine  was  announced 
to  a  group  of  men  in  the  Club,  Mr.  Dan  Moran 
said,  "I  bet  five  hundred  dollars  he  never  gradu- 
ates;" and  no  one  was  found  to  take  the  bet! 

The  requirements  for  a  medical  student  in  those 
days  were  of  the  simplest.  There  was  no  entrance 
examination.  All  the  student  had  to  do  was 
to  matriculate  at  the  college  and  pay  a  fee 
of  five  dollars,  attend   two  or  more  courses  of 

(37) 


lectures  at  the  college,  and  pass  the  very  brief 
oral  examinations  which  each  professor  gave 
the  members  of  the  graduating  class  on  his  own 
subject.  In  addition,  the  law  required  that  every 
student  enter  his  name  with  some  reputable 
practising  physician  for  three  years  as  a  student 
in  his  office — a  rather  hazy  and  indefinite  relation, 
for  which  he  paid  the  physician  one  hundred 
dollars  each  year.  If  these  requirements  were 
met  the  long-hoped-for  sheepskin  was  forthcoming, 
and  the  new  M.D.  was  turned  loose  on  the  world 
to  meet  as  best  he  could  the  complicated  respon- 
sibilities of  a  medical  career. 

I  chose  as  my  preceptor  Dr.  H.  B.  Sands,  who 
then  lectured  at  the  college  on  surgery,  and  that 
gave  me  the  great  privilege  of  being  a  member 
of  the  Professor's  Quiz,  which  was  composed 
of  all  the  Professor's  own  students,  and  they 
were  examined  once  each  week  by  every  professor 
on  his  own  subject. 

When  I  returned  from  my  first  visit  to  Dr. 
Sands,  after  entering  my  name  in  his  office  as  one 
of  his  students,  I  carried  under  my  arm  a  new 
Gray's  Anatomy  and,  wrapped  up  in  a  piece  of 
brown  paper,  two  venerable  human  bones  Dr. 
Sands  had  given  me  to  study.  By  their  dark 
appearance  and  high  polish  they  had  evidently 
been  already  used  by  generations  of  medical 
students,  but  I  felt  quite  proud  of  them  neverthe- 
less. In  after  years  I  often  brought  much  more 
unsavory  and  objectionable  anatomical  curiosities 

(38) 


home  for  study,  until  finally  my  landlady  objected. 
One  of  these  dark  yellow  bones  I  decided  at 
once  was  an  arm  bone,  but  the  other,  which 
looked  like  the  flange  of  a  propeller,  I  was  utterly 
at  a  loss  to  place  anywhere  in  the  human  body 
at  first.  Finally  with  the  aid  of  my  Gray's 
Anatomy  I  concluded  it  must  be  a  shoulder  blade, 
and  began  to  try  to  memorize  the  extraordinary 
names  of  its  parts  and  processes  and  of  its  mus- 
cular attachments,  until  they  finally  overcame 
me  and  I  went  to  bed.  This  was  the  first  step 
in  my  medical  career,  and  the  turning-point 
between  an  easy  life  of  pleasure  to  one  of  work 
and  responsibility.  After  this  my  evenings  were 
generally  spent  in  the  little  hall  bedroom  with 
my  anatomy  instead  of  at  the  Club  with  my 
boon   companions. 

The  College  of  Physicians  and  Surgeons  was 
then  a  not  very  imposing  institution  on  the  corner 
of  Twenty-third  Street  and  Fourth  Avenue,  and 
very  appropriately  had  a  drug-store  and  an  ice- 
cream saloon  occupying  the  basement  of  the 
high-stooped  three-story  brick  building  which 
was  devoted  to  the  uses  of  the  College.  The 
dissecting-room  was  on  the  top  floor. 

There  was  very  little  clinical  or  bedside  teach- 
ing in  those  days,  although  the  professors  of 
medicine  held  public  clinics  occasionally  at 
Bellevue  and  the  New  York  Hospitals,  and  all 
the  students  were  notified  of  the  daily  operations 
by  a  notice  on  the  bulletin-board  of  the  College. 

(39) 


The  teaching  was  all  done  by  lectures  and  charts 
on  the  wall.  The  charts,  which  were  hung  up 
just  before  the  lecture  by  the  professor's  pet 
student — often  under  a  pitiless  fusilade  of  mis- 
siles— ^were  generally  of  a  gigantic  size  and  strik- 
ingly and  vividly  drawn  and  colored.  I  can  see 
some  of  them  distinctly  now,  so  strong  an  impres- 
sion did  their  exaggerated  characteristics  make 
on  my  receptive  mind. 

The  lectures  on  Practice  of  Medicine  and  Sur- 
gery were  didactic  and  descriptive.  What  the 
professors  taught  was  well  taught,  especially  the 
clinical  side,  and  was  up  to  the  knowledge  of  the 
day;  but  there  was  much  less  to  teach  then  than 
now,  and  theories  were  accepted  and  taught 
without  proof  when  definite  knowledge  was  lack- 
ing, as  laboratory  and  animal  experimentation 
were  still  in  their  infancy. 

Pathology  was  taught  by  the  Chair  of  Medicine 
as  a  side  issue.  No  laboratory  microscopic  studies 
were  required  of  the  students.  The  theories  as 
to  the  causation  of  disease  were  discussed  and 
criticized  in  the  lectures,  as  well  as  the  classifica- 
tion, which  was  based  entirely  on  the  gross  and 
microscopic  pathology;  but  the  exciting  causes 
of  these  diseases  remained  necessarily  theoretical. 

This  was  true  of  tuberculosis.  Dr.  Alonzo 
Clark  taught  that  it  was  a  non-contagious,  gen- 
erally incurable  and  inherited  disease,  due  to 
inherited  constitutional  peculiarities,  perverted 
humors  and  various  types  of  inflammation,  and 

(40) 


dwelt  at  length  on  the  different  pathological 
characteristics  of  tubercle,  scrofula,  caseation, 
and  pulmonary  phthisis,  and  their  classification 
and  relation  to  each  other.  How  absolutely 
different  is  our  present  conception  of  the  disease, 
owing  to  the  light  thrown  on  its  causation  by 
animal  experimentation  and  bacteriology!  But 
bacteriology  was  an  unknown  science  in  those 
days. 

The  clinical  side  of  medicine,  however,  was 
wonderfully  accurate  and  well  presented,  and  the 
treatment,  based  on  the  lecturer's  personal  obser- 
vations, could  not  be  criticised. 

While  in  the  College  one  of  the  students  devel- 
oped symptoms  of  tuberculosis  of  the  lungs,  and, 
with  my  brother's  case  ever  before  me,  I  felt 
deeply  for  him  and  wanted  to  help  him.  I  decided 
to  brave  Dr.  Clark  in  his  office  and  lay  my  friend's 
case  before  him.  The  interview,  like  all  interviews 
with  Dr.  Clark,  was  a  brief  one  and  to  the  point. 
He  listened  to  me  attentively  as  I  described  my 
friend's  case,  and  then  rising  from  his  chair  said, 
"Tell  your  friend  to  go  to  the  mountains  and 
become  a  stage  driver  for  a  few  years.  Good 
evening."  If  Dr.  Clark's  teaching  seems  obsolete 
to  us  now,  his  treatment  certainly  was  up  to  date. 
Driving  a  stage  in  the  mountains  means  an  open- 
air  life,  rest,  and  a  good  climate,  and  embodies 
the  main  features  of  our  modern  treatment  of  the 
disease. 

We  had  some  most  distinguished  men  on  the 

(41) 


faculty:  the  venerable  Dr.  Alonzo  Clark,  Dr. 
Willard  Parker,  Dr.  John  Dalton,  Dr.  H.  B. 
Sands,  Dr.  William  H.  Draper,  Dr.  T.  Gaillard 
Thomas,  Dr.  Fessenden  W.  Otis,  with  whom  I 
subsequently  entered  into  partnership  in  New 
York,  Dr.  James  L.  McLane  and  Dr.  H.  B.  St. 
John.  I  have  most  pleasant  recollections  of  all 
the  professors  whom  I  grew  to  know  personally 
during  the  two  and  a  half  years  when  I  sat  on 
those  hard  benches  and  heard  the  lectures.  My 
favorite  lecturer  was  Dr.  John  Dalton,  and  his 
lectures  on  physiology  seemed  to  me,  and  really 
were,  wonderfully  thorough  and  well  presented. 
Dr.  William  H.  Draper  was  my  ideal  of  an  educated 
and  refined  physician  and  gentleman,  and  for 
Dr.  H.  B.  Sands,  my  preceptor,  I  had  unbounded 
admiration,  and  he  was,  I  think,  the  most  popular 
professor  with  the  students  at  that  time. 

Dr.  Alonzo  Clark  was  admired  for  his  learning, 
though  feared  by  the  students  on  account  of  his 
gruff,  short  manner,  and  his,  at  times,  pitiless  irony. 
The  other  professors  all  quizzed  their  students 
once  a  week  at  their  offices,  but  Dr.  Clark  always 
held  his  weekly  quiz  in  the  upper  lecture-room  at 
the  College  and  invited  the  entire  class  to  be 
present.  We  were  all  in  dread  of  being  called  up, 
as  our  mistakes  were  commented  on  sometimes  in 
what  seemed  to  us  an  unnecessarily  severe  manner. 
I  was  fortunately  never  specially  held  up  to  ridi- 
cule, but  I  resented  Dr.  Clark's  apparent  unfriend- 
liness to  the  students. 

(42) 


I  remember  on  one  occasion  the  laugh  of  the 
class  was  turned  on  a  timid  friend  of  mine,  a  man 
by  the  name  of  Little;  and  this  aggravated  my 
antagonism  to  Dr.  Clark.  It  was  a  public  quiz 
evening,  and  as  Dr.  Clark  called  out  Little's 
name  he  added,  '"Man  wants  but  Little  here 
below  nor  wants  that  Little  long';  so  make  your 
answers  as  brief  as  possible,  Mr.  Little."  Poor 
Little  was  covered  with  confusion  and  failed  in 
his  answer.  I  remember  I  nearly  got  myself  into 
trouble  by  trying  to  get  even  with  Dr.  Clark.  He 
was  lecturing  on  dysentery  the  next  day,  and  in 
speaking  of  the  treatment  inadvertently  said  that 
"ice  injections  into  the  bowel  should  be  used." 
Questions  were  often  written  out  and  passed  up 
unsigned  to  the  professors  to  answer.  So  under 
cover  of  my  note-book  I  wrote  on  a  piece  of  paper, 
"What  kind  of  a  syringe  do  you  advise  for  injecting 
ice?"  The  paper  was  passed  up  to  the  Professor, 
who  put  on  his  glasses,  looked  at  it,  tore  it  up  and 
went  on  with  his  lecture.  I  thought,  however,  he 
suspected  me,  for  his  keen  black  eyes  gave  me  a 
sharp  look. 

When  I  came  up  for  final  examination  Dr. 
Clark's  manner  was  so  severe  and  his  questions  so 
searching  that  I  made  up  my  mind  he  guessed 
that  I  had  been  the  offender  on  that  occasion.  I 
was  almost  in  a  tremor  with  fear  when  I  was 
admitted  to  his  bare  and  dusty  sanctum  under 
the  stairs  of  the  college.  The  old  gentleman  sat 
with  his  fur-lined  coat  on  his  knees  and  nodded  to 

(43) 


me  as  I  entered,  then  began  to  look  down  his  list 
of  the  student's  names.     In  my  anxiety  to  be  on 
pleasant  terms  with  him  I  volunteered,  "My  name 
is  Trudeau,    sir."     "I  know  it,"  was  the   only 
reply,   followed  by  a  dreadful  pause.     Then  he 
said,  "Mr.  Trudeau,  what  is  pain  a  symptom  of?" 
At  first  I  was  floored  and  did  not  know  what  to 
answer:  then  I  pulled  myself  together  and  began 
with  the  inflammations,  neuralgias,  etc.,  and  men- 
tioned   as   many   as    I    could.      Another   pause. 
"You  have  omitted  one  long  pain."     "Sciatica," 
I  answered.    "Well,  Mr.  Trudeau,  what  is  hemor- 
rhage  a   symptom  of?"   and   then,    "Well,   Mr. 
Trudeau,  what  is  fever  a  symptom  of?"  and  so  on. 
I  was  glad  to  escape  when  the  ordeal  was  over,  but 
as  no  other  student  reported  having  been  asked 
such  searching  questions,  I  have  always  felt  the 
old  gentleman  had  been  getting  even  with  me  for 
trying  to  poke  fun  at  him  about  the  ice  injections. 
As  fellow-students  with  me  in  Dr.  Sands' s  office 
I  came  in  contact  with  many  men  who  made  their 
mark  in  medicine  afterwards:     Dr.   William  T. 
Bull,  Dr.  John  G.  Curtis,  Dr.  Francis  P.  Kinnicutt, 
Dr.  Matthew  D.  Mann,  and  many  others  whose 
names  became  well   known   as  great  physicians 
and    surgeons.       I    formed    a    strong    friendship 
with  Dr.   Luis  P.  Walton,   an  English   student, 
a   personal    friendship    which    lasted    throughout 
his  life.     Among  my  intimates  were  William  T. 
Bull,   Francis  P.   Kinnicutt,  Matthew  D.  Mann, 
Allan    McLane    Hamilton,    Thomas    R.    French, 

(44) 


and  Luis  P.  Walton.  We  formed  a  little  clique 
with  a  few  other  members  of  the  Professor's 
Quiz,  sat  together  at  lectures,  and  knew  very 
little  personally  of  the  rest  of  the  students. 

William  T.  Bull,  John  G.  Curtis  and  Francis  P. 
Kinnicutt  were  the  star  students  in  the  Professor's 
Quiz.  We  were  not  much  awed  by  their  knowl- 
edge, however,  for  I  can  remember  that  William 
T.  Bull  did  all  Dr.  Sands's  dissections,  and  when 
the  dissected  body  was  brought  into  the  lecture 
room,  followed  by  the  lecturer,  in  whose  wake, 
with  a  smile  upon  his  handsome  face,  walked 
W.  T.  Bull  who  probably  had  sat  up  all  night 
doing  the  dissecting,  we  greeted  him  generally 
with  cat-calls  and  a  shower  of  cigarette  stumps, 
paper  balls  and  other  missiles.  This  was  the 
medical  student's  method  of  showing  approval 
and  admiration,  as  he  was  certainly  the  most 
popular  man  in  the  class.  Many  years  after- 
wards the  echo  of  the  wonderful  operations  he 
had  done  reached  me  even  in  the  midst  of  the 
Adirondack  wilderness,  and  I  had  him  come  up 
from  New  York  in  consultation  once  on  a  distant 
lake  in  a  case  of  shotgun  wound  of  the  hip- joint. 

The  change  in  my  mode  of  life  and  breaking 
away  from  my  old  associates  was  very  hard 
at  first,  for  my  former  companions  did  their 
best  to  induce  me  to  go  to  entertainments, 
theatres  and  parties  with  them.  When  they 
found,  however,  that  I  really  meant  my  refusals 
they  soon  let  me  alone  to  do  as  I  pleased.     My 

(45) 


finances  had  improved  since  my  grandmother's 
death  and  I  received  more  money  from  my 
grandfather's  estate,  so  I  took  a  better  room  on 
West  Twenty-first  Street  and  went  for  my  meals 
to  the  Club.  I  found  this  no  more  expensive, 
if  my  orders  were  moderate,  than  eating  at  restau- 
rants, and  the  food  was  much  better. 

I  still  kept  up  my  friendship  with  the  Living- 
stons, who  looked  upon  my  study  of  medicine  as 
a  passing  fancy,  and  I  often  occupied  the  seat 
Mrs.  Livingston  kept  at  her  dinner  table  for  me. 
The  summers  were  spent  almost  altogether  at 
Grassmere,  the  Livingstons'  country  place  near 
Rhinebeck,  and  I  went  as  often  as  I  could  get 
invitations  to  the  Little  Neck  cottage. 

Though  slender,  I  was  quite  athletic,  very 
active,  and  had  wonderful  endurance.  I  owned 
a  racing  shell  boat  and  rowed  a  great  deal  with 
the  Livingstons  and  their  friends  on  the  Hudson 
River.  At  times  I  kept  my  boat  in  New  York 
on  the  Hudson  River  side,  and,  undeterred  by 
the  dangers  of  the  crowded  harbor,  on  Saturdays 
in  the  Spring  I  would  row  around  the  Battery, 
down  through  Hell  Gate  to  Little  Neck  for  a 
visit  to  the  Rectory.  My  shell  boat,  like  all 
such  racing  craft,  would  carry  almost  nothing 
but  its  owner  and  on  one  occasion,  I  remember, 
this  proved  awkward.  I  had  rowed  down  to 
the  Rectory  in  the  boat  one  Friday  afternoon,  and 
on  Saturday  we  all  had  an  invitation  to  dine  with 
Mr.  John  A.  King  and  his  family,  who  lived  in 

(46) 


their  country  place  on  King's  Point,  at  Great 
Neck.  It  was  arranged  that  Miss  Beare  and  her 
father  should  drive  down  in  their  little  carriage 
and  I  was  to  row  down  in  my  shell  boat.  All  I 
wore  in  the  shell  was  a  pair  of  trousers  and  a 
thin,  sleeveless  undershirt,  so  I  put  the  rest  of 
my  clothes  in  a  bag  in  the  little  carriage  with 
the  clergyman  and  his  daughter,  with  the  in- 
struction that  they  should  send  the  things  down 
to  the  boathouse  as  soon  as  they  got  there.  It 
was  a  beautiful  day  and  I  rowed  along  at  a  good 
rate.  When  I  reached  King's  Point,  Mr.  King, 
who  had  seen  me,  was  standing  on  the  shore 
waiting  for  me.  He  told  me  Mr.  and  Miss  Beare 
had  not  arrived  yet,  but  he  urged  me  to  come 
ashore  and  wait  for  them.  I  came  ashore,  but 
explained  to  him  that  as  I  had  no  clothes  with 
me  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  go  up  to  the 
house  and  see  his  wife  and  daughters.  My  help- 
lessness seemed  to  amuse  him  greatly,  and  he 
told  me  it  was  absurd  how  dependent  we  were 
for  our  dignity  upon  our  clothes.  Had  I  ever 
thought  how  undignified  a  gathering  the  House 
of  Bishops  would  be  if  deprived  of  their  trousers? 
My  bag  soon  came,  however,  and  I  was  able  to 
present  a  reasonably  dignified  appearance  at 
dinner. 

From  Rhinebeck  I  rowed  at  different  times 
from  almost  one  end  of  the  Hudson  River  to  the 
other  with  the  Livingstons  and  their  friends,  and 
no  matter  what  happened   on  those  trips  they 

(47) 


always  developed  situations  and  adventures  which 
to  us  brought  fun.  The  summer  holidays  after  the 
hard  work  of  the  winter  were  full  of  pleasure  to 
me.  The  joy  of  life  and  youth  certainly  ran  in 
my  veins  then — as  it  always  has,  more  or  less, 
for  the  matter  of  that,  in  spite  of  years  and  the 
ills  of  the  flesh — and  I  might  well  have  said, 
"Give  me  youth  and  a  day  and  I'll  make  the 
pomp  of  emperors  ridiculous." 

On  one  of  our  trips  I  gave  my  companions  a 
real  fright  for  a  time,  though  when  we  got  home 
we  all  reached  the  conclusion  that  on  the  whole 
we  had  had  lots  of  fun.  On  this  occasion  we 
decided  to  go  for  a  long  row  down  the  river  and 
return  next  day.  The  two  Livingstons,  Billy 
Remsen  and  Harry  Olen  rowed  a  four-oared 
shell,  and  I  went  in  my  single  scull.  We  got  off 
late,  and  when  we  reached  Poughkeepsie,  fifteen 
miles  down  the  river,  we  landed  for  a  little  rest 
and  had  our  tintypes  taken  in  scant  rowing  attire. 
We  got  into  our  boats  again,  and  by  sunset  had 
reached  New  Hamburg,  where  we  decided  to 
stop  for  the  night.  After  supper  at  the  little 
hotel  we  smoked  our  pipes  and  then  all  turned 
in.  I  had  a  little  room  to  myself;  the  other  four 
men  occupied  a  big  room  with  two  double  beds 
across  the  hall. 

I  was  tired  and  was  soon  asleep,  but  it  must 
have  been  a  couple  of  hours  when  I  was  brought 
back  to  consciousness  by  a  strange  tingling  feel- 
ing in  many  places  of  my  tired  body.     I  got  up, 

(48) 


lit  the  light,  and  a  search  of  the  bed  revealed 
the  unpleasant  truth  that  it  was  full  of  vermin. 
That  ended  all  idea  of  rest  for  me,  so  I  put  on  my 
clothes  and  ventured  into  the  dark  hall.  I  saw 
a  glint  of  light  coming  from  the  room  occupied 
by  the  other  men,  so  I  gently  opened  the  door 
and  looked  in.  All  four  men  and  the  lamp  were 
on  the  floor,  on  which  was  pinned  a  sheet  with 
charcoal  lines  on  it.  They  never  noticed  me,  so 
intent  were  they  on  their  amusement  which  con- 
sisted, I  gathered  from  their  remarks,  in  racing 
the  little  insects  they  had  obtained  from  their 
beds  for  a  dollar  a  head  from  one  black  mark 
on  the  sheet  to  the  other.  Jim  Livingston's 
racer  was  in  the  lead,  and  he  was  prodding  it 
on  with  his  scarf-pin  and  offering  five  to  one 
on  his  winning  when,  in  his  zeal  to  hasten  the 
insect's  imperceptible  advance,  he  jabbed  the 
scarf-pin  through  its  body  and  thus  lost  the  race 
and  his  money,  to  the  noisy  delight  of  his  antag- 
onists ! 

I  waited  to  see  no  more,  but  shut  the  door 
gently  and  walked  out  into  the  night  and  down  to 
the  boat  landing.  It  was  a  glorious  night;  a 
full  moon  was  reflected  from  the  broad  river  and 
covered  the  landscape  with  its  silvery  sheen. 
Too  good  a  night  to  waste,  I  thought;  and  after 
some  difficulty  I  succeeded  in  getting  at  my  boat, 
and  was  soon  in  the  middle  of  the  river,  rowing 
down  stream. 

What  a  gorgeous  night  it  was!     I  remember 

(49) 


distinctly  now  how  the  river  glittered  in  the 
moonlight,  and  the  dim  and  graceful  outlines  of 
the  hills  stood  out  on  either  side  in  their  hazy 
softness.  Lights  were  twinkling  in  the  streets 
as  I  went  by  Newburg  but,  fascinated  by  the 
grandeur  and  stillness  of  the  beautiful  scene,  I 
went  on  until  abreast  of  West  Point,  when  a 
streak  of  light  in  the  east  caused  me  to  turn  in 
to  the  little  landing  at  Garrison's,  forty  miles 
from  our  starting-place  the  day  before.  I  pulled 
out  my  boat,  went  up  to  the  hotel,  got  a  room 
and  was  soon  asleep.  I  slept  until  about  half- 
past  three  in  the  afternoon,  when  I  decided  to 
leave  my  boat  and  take  the  train  back  to  Rhine- 
beck.  As  I  boarded  the  train  I  ran  into  Jim 
Livingston,  who  greeted  me  with  expletives  which 
were  more  forcible  than  parliamentary.     Where 

in  H had  I  been?    They  had  been  running 

up  and  down  the  river  all  day  in  a  tug-boat 
looking  for  me  but  could  find  no  trace  of  me, 
and  thought  I  must  have  upset  my  shell  and 
been  drowned. 

However,  we  all  reached  Rhinebeck  safely  on 
the  train. 

I  was  a  very  fast  walker,  and  had  often  proved 
my  speed  and  endurance  on  short  races.  During 
my  second  winter  at  the  College  the  Livingstons, 
who  had  a  good  opinion  of  my  athletic  capa- 
bilities, induced  me  to  walk  against  time  on  one 
occasion.  They  had  made  the  wager  of  a  din- 
ner with  a  number  of  men  at  the  Club  that  I 

(50) 


could  walk  from  Central  Park  (Fifty-ninth 
Street)  to  the  Battery  inside  of  an  hour.  I  had 
had  no  practise  and  had  lived  an  indoor  life 
most  of  the  winter,  but  I  wanted  to  prove  that 
their  confidence  in  my  powers  was  not  misplaced. 
So  one  night  at  midnight  we  all  went  up  in  car- 
riages to  Fifty-ninth  Street  and  I  started.  I  had 
not  realized  my  want  of  condition  nor  what  a 
test  such  a  long  walk  at  top  speed  would  be. 
By  the  time  I  reached  Twenty-third  Street  I 
was  in  great  distress.  I  remember  the  lights 
of  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel  all  looked  red  in  my 
eyes  as  I  raced  by,  but  I  kept  on.  At  any  rate, 
I  held  out  until  the  Battery  was  reached,  and 
covered  the  distance,  I  believe,  in  a  little  over 
forty-seven  minutes;  but  it  did  me  up  badly  and 
for  a  long  time  afterwards  I  felt  ill. 

I  finally  went  to  a  doctor  who  examined  me 
and  found  an  abscess  beginning  to  form,  which 
he  thought  was  the  result  of  the  strain  of  the 
walk.  It  proved  to  be  a  cold  abscess  and  had  to 
be  operated  upon  several  times  before  it  healed, 
as  all  such  abscesses  do.  In  those  days  the  rela- 
tion of  such  cold  abscesses  to  tuberculosis  was 
not  understood,  and  no  one  even  hinted  to  me 
that  it  was  of  the  least  importance.  Had  they 
done  so  I  should  have  known  that  it  was  the  first 
manifestation  of  tuberculous  infection,  and  I  could 
have  altered  my  mode  of  life  and  regained  good 
health. 

Many  years  afterwards,  on  one  of  my  visits  to 

(51) 


New  York,  my  friend  Dr.  Walter  B.  James  asked 
me  to  speak  to  his  class  at  the  College  of  Physi- 
cians and  Surgeons  on  the  subject  of  tubercu- 
losis. Hoping  to  save  others  from  the  same 
mistake,  after  describing  the  usual  symptoms 
of  early  tuberculous  infection,  I  emphasized  to 
the  students  that  if  a  patient  came  to  them  with 
a  dry  pleurisy,  blood-spitting  or  a  cold  abscess, 
it  was  wise  to  consider  him  as  tuberculous  and 
treat  him  as  such  until  the  contrary  could  be 
proved.  I  hope  some  of  the  young  doctors  who 
listened  to  me  on  that  occasion  saved  some  of 
their  patients  from  the  same  error  that  I  was 
allowed  to  commit  through  ignorance. 

I  had  evidence  that  some  of  the  students  lis- 
tened and  that  my  appeal  for  an  early  diagnosis 
made  some  impression.  About  fifteen  years 
later  I  was  in  bed  at  my  home  with  one  of  my 
exacerbations  of  fever  which  were  then  becom- 
ing more  and  more  frequent,  when  the  servant 
came  to  my  room  and  told  me  there  were  two 
gentlemen  downstairs  who  wanted  to  see  me  for 
an  examination.  I  asked  if  she  had  told  them  I 
was  sick  in  bed  and  could  see  no  one.  She  said 
she  had,  but  that  one  of  them  replied  that  they 
had  come  all  the  way  from  Australia  to  see  me 
and  must  see  me  as  soon  as  possible.  I  thought 
if  they  had  come  from  Australia  to  see  me  I  cer- 
tainly must  see  them,  and  so  they  were  admitted. 
It  proved  to  be  a  doctor  with  his  patient,  a  young 
Englishman.      The  doctor  told   me   that  fifteen 

(52) 


years  ago  he  had  been  a  student  at  the  College  and 
heard  my  lecture,  and  that  it  had  made  a  strong 
impression  on  him.  After  graduation  he  went 
out  to  Australia  and  had  been  in  practice  there 
ever  since.  Two  months  before  he  had  been  sent 
for  to  examine  the  son  of  a  very  prominent 
English  resident.  He  found  the  young  man 
showed  evidences  of  tuberculosis.  The  father 
asked  the  doctor  what  he  considered  the  best 
chance  to  save  his  son's  life,  and  the  doctor 
advised  that  the  young  man  be  sent  to  my  care 
at  Saranac  Lake  and  said  that  was  what  he 
should  do  were  he  in  the  patient's  place.  The 
father  made  an  arrangement  that  the  doctor 
should  come  at  once  with  his  son  to  Saranac 
Lake  to  consult  me,  and  they  had  just  arrived. 
The  young  man  stayed  in  Saranac  Lake  two 
years,  and  the  last  I  heard  of  him  was  a  post-card 
saying  he  had  gone  from  Australia  to  the  great 
European  war. 

In  some  of  my  frequent  visits  to  the  Little 
Neck  Rectory  during  the  first  winter  I  studied 
medicine,  I  found  that  Mr.  Beare's  horse  had 
given  out  and  that  if  Miss  Beare  wanted  to  drive 
or  ride  she  had  to  use  a  poor  horse,  and  one  I 
did  not  consider  safe.  I  had  always  been  rather 
familiar  with  horse-flesh  through  my  friends  the 
Livingstons,  who  always  kept  trotting  horses,  and 
bred  horses  on  their  country  place  at  Rhinebeck; 
and  the  idea  occurred  to  me  that  by  strenuous 

(S3) 


saving  I  might  be  able  to  give  Miss  Beare  a  sur- 
prise on  her  birthday  in  the  shape  of  a  good  horse. 
The  Livingstons  had  a  wide-awake  young  Irish 
coachman  who  was  known  to  us  only  by  the 
name  of  Patsy  and  had  been  with  horses  and 
horsemen  since  he  was  a  child.  I  confided  to 
Patsy  my  ambitious  plan  to  buy  a  good  horse 
for  Miss  Beare,  told  him  I  wanted  the  horse 
to  be  perfect,  and  that  two  hundred  dollars  was 
all  I  thought  I  could  possibly  raise.  I  didn't 
see  how  such  a  perfect  animal  as  I  wanted  could 
be  bought  for  any  such  sum,  but  I  had  great 
faith  in  Patsy's  ability  to  produce  any  kind  of  a 
piece  of  horse-flesh  from  his  many  horse-dealing 
acquaintances;  and  he  certainly  lived  up  to  my 
expectations.  One  day  he  came  to  me  and  told 
me  he  had  found  a  perfect  horse,  a  beauty,  and 
one  without  a  fault,  worth  at  least  one  thousand 
dollars,  but  that  his  friend  was  hard  up  and  he 
thought  it  could  be  bought  for  five  hundred. 
The  horse  was  described  in  such  glowing  terms 
that  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  price  was  far 
beyond  what  I  could  aff^ord  I  couldn't  resist  the 
temptation  of  looking  at  him.  Patsy's  friend 
brought  him  to  the  Livingstons'  stables,  and 
he  certainly  seemed  perfect  in  every  way.  He 
was  a  beautiful  bay  with  black  points  and  a  tail 
that  touched  the  ground.  I  asked  the  privilege 
of  trying  him,  so  he  was  saddled  and  I  went  out 
in  the  park  for  a  ride  on  him.  He  seemed  per- 
fectly broken  for  a  lady's  saddle   horse;    would 

(54) 


single-foot,  lope,  trot  or  gallop  at  the  rider's  will, 
and  was  very  gentle.  I  pictured  Miss  Beare's 
delight  when  she  saw  him,  and  how  she  would 
enjoy  riding  him.  I  made  up  my  mind  I  must 
have  him  if  it  took  my  last  cent.  To  my  sorrow, 
however,  I  found  that  three  hundred  dollars  was 
the  very  utmost  I  could  possibly  hope  to  scrape 
together.  I  confided  this  unfortunate  circum- 
stance to  Patsy,  who  told  me  he  would  see  his 
friend  and  find  out  what  could  be  done.  After 
much  talk  he  told  me  that  he  had  seen  his  friend 
who,  he  thought,  in  view  of  all  the  circumstances, 
could  be  induced  to  take  three  hundred  dollars; 
so  my  last  cent  went  in  a  check  for  that  amount 
and  the  horse  was  bought. 

Miss  Beare's  birthday  was  the  following  week 
and  I  wrote  her  I  would  ride  down  and  spend 
it  with  her,  but  never  said  a  word  about  the 
horse.  I  was  so  joyful  in  anticipation  of  Miss 
Beare's  pleasure  when,  after  she  had  admired 
my  mount,  I  would  tell  her  that  the  horse  was 
for  her  birthday,  that  I  could  hardly  wait;  and 
many  times  went  down  to  the  Livingstons* 
stable  and  looked  at  the  beautiful  animal  with 
my  friend  Patsy. 

It  was  a  fine,   clear  day  when   I    started  on 

horseback  for  Little   Neck  and   I   was  bursting 

with  pleasurable  anticipation.     I  rode  slowly  for 

the  first  few  miles;    then  the  exhilaration  of  the 

circumstances  got  the  better  of  me  and  I  decided 

to   try  my  handsome   animal's  speed.     I   called 

(55) 


on  him  and  he  responded  by  a  fine  burst  of  speed, 
a  test  I  had  never  put  him  to  before.  As  I 
reached  Flushing,  five  miles  from  Little  Neck,  I 
began  to  think  his  gait  was  not  as  easy  as  it  had 
been.  I  rode  a  little  further;  surely,  he  was 
lame.  I  got  off,  looked  at  his  front  legs,  but 
could  see  nothing.  The  lameness  was  in  his 
shoulders.  The  dreadful  truth  flashed  upon  me 
then.  Patsy  and  his  "horsey"  friend  had  "done" 
me!  The  beautiful  animal,  had  he  not  been  a 
patched-up,  foundered  horse,  could  never  have 
been  bought  for  three  hundred  dollars.  The 
burst  of  speed  had  brought  out  the  truth,  and 
a  more  bitter  disappointment  I  never  had  in  my 
life.  He  grew  lamer  and  lamer,  and  as  I  went  up 
the  Little  Neck  hill  I  had  to  get  off  and  lead 
him.  Miss  Beare  met  me  at  the  Rectory  gate — 
but  how  different  from  the  meeting  I  had  so 
long  anticipated!  The  only  comfort  I  could 
get  was  that,  when  I  told  her  my  story,  she  was 
so  full  of  kindness  and  sympathy  that  she  made 
up  to  me  for  much  of  my  bitter  disappointment. 

The  horse  had  been  well  doctored  up,  but  he 
never  was  good  for  anything  again  and  I 
exchanged  him  for  a  common,  useful  animal, 
getting  only  seventy-five  dollars  for  the  hand- 
some bay. 

A  year  before  I  was  graduated  from  the  Medi- 
cal School  Miss  Beare  allowed  me  to  announce 
our  engagement.  Her  friends  and  family  evi- 
dently  thought   she   was   sacrificing  herself,  and 

(56) 


treated  me  very  coldly.  My  friends  and  my 
uncle's  family,  I  know,  wondered  how  she  could 
take  such  chances  as  to  marry  a  man  who  went 
with  such  a  fast  set  and  had  little  prospect  of 
earning  a  living,  but  their  disapproval  didn't 
worry  me  in  the  least.  I  was  certainly  care- 
free in  those  days,  and  the  horizon  and  the  future 
were  always  brilliant  and  rose-colored. 

About  this  time  I  unexpectedly  received  a  pay- 
ment of  twelve  hundred  dollars  from  my  grand- 
father's estate.  Lou  Livingston  had  for  two  years 
owned  the  finest  pair  of  little  mares  I  had  ever 
seen.  He  drove  them  to  a  light  Brewster  trotting 
wagon,  and  the  turnout  had  long  been  my  admira- 
tion and  envy.  Many  were  the  good  drives  we 
had  had  together  behind  the  beautiful  little  pair, 
both  in  the  summer  at  Rhinebeck  and  when  in 
New  York  through  the  Park  to  Harlem  Lane, 
where  we  raced  with  the  best  and  stopped  at 
Johnny  Florence's,  near  High  Bridge,  for  refresh- 
ments. Lou  Livingston,  I  knew,  was  very  hard  up 
and  had  talked  of  selling  his  turnout,  and  when  the 
money  came  in  unexpectedly  it  seemed  to  me  the 
most  natural  and  satisfactory  use  I  could  possibly 
make  of  it  would  be  to  buy  Lou's  turnout  with  it. 
I  pictured  to  myself  how  pleased  and  proud  I 
should  be  to  take  Miss  Beare  out  driving  behind 
these  fine  animals.  The  turnout  had  cost  Lou 
Livingston  over  two  thousand  dollars,  but  I 
bought  it  for  my  twelve  hundred.  The  cost  or  its 
future  maintenance  didn't  weigh  at  all  heavily 

(57) 


on  me;  that  would  take  care  of  itself  somehow. 
And  it  did,  as  I  received  more  money  from  my 
grandfather's  estate  a  few  months  later. 

When  I  went  to  the  hospital  I  kept  the  mares 
near  by,  and  when  Miss  Beare  was  in  town  at 
her  aunt's,  would  call  for  her  there  on  fine  after- 
noons and  take  her  to  the  park  with  my  new 
turnout.  I  imagined  with  what  disapproval  her 
staid  friends  and  family  must  have  looked  on 
when  she  appeared  in  an  up-to-date  trotting  rig 
with  me;  but  as  the  little  mares  picked  their 
way  through  crowded  Fifth  Avenue,  and  later 
when  we  flew  up  Harlem  Lane  at  a  two-forty 
gait,  no  one  could  have  been  prouder  or  happier 
than  I  was. 

When  we  were  married,  from  Mr.  William  P. 
Douglas's  place  at  Little  Neck  on  June  29,  1871, 
the  little  mares,  harnessed  to  a  borrowed  coupe 
and  driven  by  my  Irish  boy,  James  Burke,  in 
livery,  took  us  to  New  York  on  our  wedding 
journey. 

One  of  the  little  mares  broke  down  two  years 
later  and  I  sold  her  to  old  Mr.  Livingston  as  a 
brood  mare;  the  other  I  took  to  the  Adiron- 
dacks  with  me,  and  she  drew  our  cutter  on  a 
memorable  trip  from  Malone  to  Paul  Smith's  when 
I  brought  my  little  family  into  the  mountains  in 
January,  1875.  Six  of  the  seven  horses  in  our 
party  gave  out  in  the  deep  snows  and  had  to  be 
unharnessed  and  left  to  follow  as  best  they  could, 
but  the  little  mare  held  out  and  drew  my  wife 

(58) 


and  me  in  the  cutter,  coming  in  with  her  head  up 
on  the  night  of  the  third  day,  when  we  reached 
Paul  Smith's. 

As  I  reached  the  end  of  my  college  work  I 
could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  try  for  a  hospital 
position  at  the  New  York  Hospital  or  Bellevue, 
for  that  involved  eighteen  months  of  service  and 
I  really  could  not  wait  eighteen  months  longer  to 
be  married.  I  was  in  a  state  of  indecision  as  to 
what  I  should  do,  when  Dr.  Sands  told  me  a 
Mr.  Kaiser  had  built  a  small  hospital  on  the 
corner  of  Tenth  Street  and  Avenue  A,  called  The 
Strangers*  Hospital,  which  was  to  be  opened  on 
January  i;  and  that  as  it  was  a  new  hospital, 
all  three  positions — House  Physician,  Senior 
and  Junior  Assistants — would  be  open  for  com- 
petitive examination  and  the  positions  awarded 
at  once,  according  to  the  standing  of  the  suc- 
cessful candidates.  Although  I  was  not  to  be 
graduated  until  March  i,  I  decided  to  try  for 
this  hospital.  If  I  got  the  position  of  house 
physician  or  senior  assistant  I  would  serve,  as  the 
first  would  be  for  six  months  and  the  second  for 
one  year  only.  If,  however,  I  got  the  junior's 
assistant's  place,  which  would  keep  me  eighteen 
months,  I  would  resign  it  and  get  married  with- 
out a  hospital  experience. 

The  examinations  were  to  be  given  orally  at 
the  offices  of  the  four  physicians  who  composed 
the  Visiting  Staff — Dr.  William  H.  Draper,  Dr. 
H.  B.  Sands,  Dr.  T.  Gaillard  Thomas,  and  Dr. 

(59) 


Fessenden  Otis.  It  required  all  the  courage  I 
could  summon  to  ring  the  doorbells  of  these 
prominent  men  and,  when  shown  into  the  office, 
to  announce  calmly  that  I  was  a  candidate  for 
the  house  staff  of  The  Strangers'  Hospital.  I 
lived  through  the  ordeal,  however,  and  Dr. 
William  H.  Draper,  who  was  the  first  one  I  called 
upon,  was  especially  kind  to  a  terrified  young 
man  and  conversed  with  me  a  few  minutes  to 
put  me  at  my  ease  before  asking  me  any  ques- 
tions. I  was  much  elated  when,  a  few  days 
later,  I  received  an  official  note  stating  that  I 
had  passed  the  best  examination  and  had  first 
choice  of  the  open  positions.  Of  course  I  took 
the  one  of  House  Physician,  which  would  keep 
me  on  duty  only  six  months.  Dr.  Matthew  D. 
Mann  got  the  place  of  Senior  Assistant  and  Dr. 
Hugo  Kunstler  that  of  Junior  Assistant. 


(60) 


V 

^T^HE  Strangers'  Hospital  covered  half  a  block  on 
X  Tenth  Street  and  had  been  built  by  remodel- 
ling and  converting  former  business  buildings  into 
a  hospital  building.  It  accommodated  about  a 
hundred  and  twenty  patients;  had  two  wards 
for  surgical  cases,  in  charge  of  Dr.  H.  B.  Sands; 
two  for  medical  cases,  which  constituted  Dr. 
William  H.  Draper's  service;  a  genito-urinary 
ward,  a  ward  for  diseases  of  women  and  a  lying-in 
ward  as  well,  under  the  charge  of  Dr.  Fessenden 
Otis  and  Dr.  T.  Gaillard  Thomas  respectively. 

When  I  qualified  as  House  Physician,  January 
I,  1 87 1,  I  had  not  yet  passed  my  examination 
for  M.D.,  which  took  place  in  March.  I  found 
myself  at  once  in  charge  of  all  the  wards,  and  yet 
it  is  quite  true  that  I  had  never  before  that  time 
had  the  slightest  practical  experience  in  seeing  and 
treating  illness  and  injuries  at  the  bedside.  I 
realized  my  unfitness  for  the  place  the  first  time 
I  was  called  up  by  the  night  nurse  in  the  women's 
ward  for  a  case  of  hemorrhage.  As  I  entered  the 
ward  a  stream  of  blood  was  running  across  the 
floor  from  under  the  woman's  bed,  and  I  had 
never  seen  anything  of  the  kind  before.    I  remem- 

(61) 


bered,  however,  what  I  was  to  try  to  do,  and 
whether  I  did  it,  or  nature  was  kind  to  me  and 
the  patient,  I  don't  know,  but  the  hemorrhage 
stopped,  and  I  was  quite  pleased  with  myself 
as  I  left  the  ward. 

The  patients  may  have  suffered  somewhat, 
but  I  certainly  got  a  good  deal  of  valuable  expe- 
rience during  my  six  months  in  the  hospital, 
because  I  was  thrown  on  my  own  resources  and 
had  to  do  the  best  I  could  in  emergencies  with 
no  other  aid  in  most  cases  at  first  than  my  assis- 
tants, neither  of  whom  had  any  more  medical 
experience  than  I  had. 

The  hospital  work  was  at  times  pretty  strenu- 
ous, but  after  the  last  attending  physician  had 
taken  his  departure,  I  would  several  times  a  week 
rush  down  to  Little  Neck  and  spend  the  evening 
with  Miss  Beare.  This  necessitated  a  five-mile 
drive  back  to  Flushing  at  twelve  o'clock  at  night 
to  catch  the  one  o'clock  train  to  New  York, 
and  often  on  returning  to  the  hospital  I  would 
find  Dr.  Mann  asleep  in  my  room,  while  a  newly 
made  ether  cone  and  a  box  of  instruments  on  the 
table  showed  me  he  was  waiting  for  my  return 
to  do  some  operation  or  put  up  a  fracture,  and  I 
wouldn't  get  to  bed  before  three  or  four  o'clock 

A.M. 

All  this  constant  and  intense  activity,  loss  of 
sleep  and  indoor  life  began  to  tell  on  my  health, 
and  I  was  very  thin  and  worn  out  when  I  ended 
my  hospital  service.     I  must  have  had  excellent 

(62) 


resistance  to  have  kept  perfectly  well  so  long, 
under  such  trying  conditions,  after  the  positive 
evidence  of  tuberculous  infection  given  by  the 
cold  abscess  eighteen  months  before. 

The  rules  at  the  hospital  gave  the  resident 
physicians  two  weeks'  holiday  every  six  months. 
I  was  so  anxious  to  get  married  at  as  early  a  date 
as  possible  that  I  took  my  holiday  at  the  end  of 
my  service,  left  the  hospital  about  the  twentieth 
of  June  and  we  were  married  on  the  twenty-ninth. 

Mr.  W.  P.  Douglas,  whose  country  seat  was 
at  Little  Neck  and  who  had  known  Miss  Beare 
since  she  was  a  child,  offered  his  beautiful  place 
at  Douglaston  to  Mr.  and  Miss  Beare  for  the 
wedding  reception.  The  rectory  was  part  of  Mr. 
Douglas's  estate  and  only  a  short  walk  from  his 
country  home,  where  he  entertained  constantly. 
Miss  Maxwell,  my  Aunt  Aspinwall's  sister,  pre- 
sided over  the  Douglas  Manor  household,  as  Mr 
Douglas  was  her  nephew.  From  childhood  Miss 
Beare  had  been  a  great  favorite  of  Miss  Maxwell's 
and  she  was  constantly  invited  to  all  the  dinners 
and  parties  at  Douglas  Manor — festivities  in 
which  I  was  also  often  invited  to  share. 

A  more  attractive  place  for  a  country  wedding 
could  hardly  be  imagined.  The  grounds  stretched 
along  the  shore  of  Little  Neck  Bay  up  to  the  fine 
old-fashioned  mansion,  which  commanded  a  beau- 
tiful view  of  Long  Island  Sound. 

Willie  Douglas's  yacht,  the  "Sappho,"  was  often 
anchored  at  some  distance  out,  as  the  water  in 

(63) 


the  bay  was  too  shallow;  but  we  young  people 
had  some  good  trips  on  her  when  Miss  Maxwell 
would  ask  my  girl  cousins  and  Miss  Beare,  as 
well  as  her  inevitable  young  man,  on  sailing  trips. 
To  me,  who  loved  every  rope  in  a  good  boat, 
every  minute  on  such  a  grand  yacht  as  the 
"Sappho"  was  a  keen  joy. 

I  remember  during  one  of  Dr.  Clark's  lectures 
in  my  last  year  at  college  when,  having  already 
listened  to  four  lectures  that  day,  life  seemed 
rather  wearisome,  I  was  handed  a  brief  note  from 
Willie  Douglas,  and  life  suddenly  became  any- 
thing but  wearisome.    The  note  read  as  follows: 

"The  'Sappho'  is  to  race  with  the  rest  of  the 
Yacht  Club  tomorrow  against  the  English  yacht 
'Cambria'  to  defend  the  America's  Cup  in  the 
International  Race.  Would  you  like  to  go?  If 
so,  be  at  Forty-second  Street,  North  River,  at 
8:00  P.M.  where  a  boat  will  meet  you." 

Would  I  like  to  go?  I  thought  Dr.  Clark's 
lecture  never  would  end,  but  it  did  finally  and  at 
7:00  P.M.  I  was  on  the  deck  of  the  "Sappho"  at 
anchor  in  the  Horseshoe.  We  had  a  pleasant 
evening,  and  the  next  morning  before  daylight 
I  was  up  on  deck  conversing  with  the  captain. 
The  challenging  English  yacht  "Cambria"  and  all 
the  boats  of  the  Yacht  Club  that  were  to  take 
part  in  the  race  were  anchored  about  us,  and 
one  by  one  I  saw  them  trip  their  anchors,  make 
sail  and  drop  down  the  bay  to  the  starting-point 
off  the  light-ship.     I  began  to  be  impatient,  and 

(64) 


appealed  to  the  captain.  Why  did  we  not 
start?  He  informed  me  Mr.  Douglas  was  still 
asleep  and  he  could  not  start  without  Mr. 
Douglas's  order.  I  dove  down  the  companion- 
way,  and  Willie  Douglas  was  soon  awake.  He 
came  on  deck  in  his  pajamas,  looked  around  for 
a  few  seconds,  told  the  captain  to  get  under  way, 
and  then  went  back  to  bed. 

When  we  reached  the  Sandy  Hook  lightship 
the  wind  was  rising,  and  the  blue  sea  was  covered 
with  all  the  yachts  of  the  Club  under  their  tower- 
ing white  canvas.  Most  of  them,  including  the 
"Cambria,"  had  already  started,  and  to  my  cha- 
grin we  were  the  last  boat  to  cross  the  line.  When 
I  expressed  my  regret  at  this  to  the  Captain  he 
only  smiled,  and  said  twenty  miles  to  windward 
was  a  long  bit  and  we  wouldn't  be  the  last  to  turn 
the  windward  stake-boat. 

Soon  we  were  on  the  open  ocean;  the  sheets 
were  trimmed  flat  and  the  great  schooner,  then 
the  fastest  sailing  vessel  in  the  world,  heeled  over 
on  her  side,  with  her  lee  rail  awash  as  the  strength- 
ening breeze  filled  her  big  sails.  The  twenty 
men  who  composed  her  crew  lay  flat  on  the  deck 
under  the  windward  rail;  the  hiss  and  rush  of 
the  waters  drowned  our  voices,  and  the  spray  flew 
over  us  as  we  dashed  through  the  great  swells 
at  top  speed.  At  every  tack  we  dropped  several 
yachts,  and  long  before  reaching  the  stake-boat, 
which  we  had  to  turn  before  heading  back,  we 
passed   the   "Cambria."      After  we  turned   and 

(65) 


began  to  run  for  home  before  the  wind,  we  had 
only  two  yachts  just  ahead  of  us — Mr.  James 
Gordon  Bennett's  large  schooner  "Dauntless" 
and  Mr.  Osgood's  "Fleetwing."  The  big  balloon 
kites  were  crowded  on,  and  within  half  an  hour 
we  were  well  in  the  lead,  and  the  "Sappho"  crossed 
the  line  a  very  easy  winner. 

The  next  morning  I  was  on  the  College  benches 
as  usual,  wondering  if  it  had  all  been  a  dream. 

The  wedding  came  off  on  the  twenty-ninth  of 
June,  1 87 1,  in  the  Little  Neck  Church  whose 
Rector  Mr.  Beare  had  been  so  long,  and  was  a 
grand  affair.  Not  only  did  all  the  Long  Island 
people  come — old  and  young,  poor  and  rich, 
who  had  known  Mr.  Beare  and  Miss  Beare  for 
many  years — but  my  friends  and  the  Aspinwalls' 
friends  came  from  the  city  on  a  special  train. 
Douglas  Manor  was  decorated  with  the  flags  from 
the  "Sappho"  and  the  yacht  herself  was  decked 
out  in  bunting.  After  the  wedding  breakfast 
in  the  large  dining-hall  at  the  Manor,  my  wife 
and  I  stood  up  for  two  mortal  hours  and  shook 
hands  with,  and  were  kissed  by,  scores  of  men  and 
women  of  all  classes  and  ages.  I  drew  the  line 
only  at  big,  black  Eliza,  who  wept  very  wet  tears 
as  she  kissed  "Miss  Charlotte,"  whom  she  had 
cared  for  from  childhood,  and  who  seemed  on 
the  point  of  including  me  in  her  muscular  and 
voluminous  embrace. 

My   wife,    however,    finally   escaped,    soon   re- 

(66) 


MRS.    E.    L.    TRUDEAU    (1910) 


appearing  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  in  travelling 
dress.  My  little  trotting  mares,  with  white 
rosettes  in  their  head-stalls,  attached  to  a  little 
coupe  borrowed  from  Mr.  Douglas's  stable  and 
driven  by  Jim  Burke  resplendent  in  a  borrowed 
livery,  were  waiting  at  the  door.  We  raced  to 
the  coupe  amidst  a  shower  of  rice  and  old  slippers, 
and  were  soon  making  good  time  toward  the 
city  on  the  New  York  turnpike;  and  this  was 
the  red-letter  day  of  my  life! 

After  a  short  trip  to  the  White  Mountains  we 
sailed  for  Europe  on  the  Cunarder  "Russia,"  re- 
turning in  October  on  the  "China."  We  went  to 
London  first,  and  then  to  Paris,  Switzerland  and 
Germany.  While  in  Paris  I  took  my  wife  to  show 
her  my  grandfather's  apartment  in  the  Rue  Matig- 
non  where  my  boyhood  had  been  spent.  The  porte 
coch^re  and  the  courtyard  looked  just  as  they  did 
when  we  left  for  America.  The  concierge's  wife 
had  died  but  he  was  still  living,  a  decrepit,  deaf 
old  man.  When  I  told  him  who  I  was  and  intro- 
duced my  wife  he  turned  to  her,  and  putting  up 
both  hands  said,  no  doubt  referring  to  me  and  my 
friends,  "  lis  etaient  tous  mauvais — mais  celui  1^!!" 

My  wife  was  delighted  with  everything  she  saw, 
as  she  had  never  been  abroad,  and  we  both 
greatly  enjoyed  the  three  weeks  we  spent  in 
Switzerland.  Heidelberg  was  full  of  interest,  but 
neither  of  us  could  speak  German  and  the  people 
did  not  seem  especially  cordial,  so  we  made  a 
very  short  stay  in  Germany. 

(67) 


Our  return  voyage  on  the  "China"  was  a  very 
trying  one.  We  had  a  series  of  gales  from  the 
time  we  started  and  were  fourteen  days  in  cross- 
ing. My  wife  was  terribly  frightened,  I  know, 
but  with  her  usual  wonderful  self-control  never 
gave  any  evidence  of  it.  At  one  time  we  shipped 
so  much  water  that  our  little  steamer  trunk 
floated  about  the  stateroom.  We  were  both 
standing  then  on  the  little  lounge  to  escape  the 
water.  I  jumped  down  and  put  the  little  trunk 
in  the  upper  berth.  My  wife  merely  remarked, 
"What  did  you  do  that  for?  We  shall  never 
want  it  again!"  Soon  the  water  ran  out  under 
the  door  and  I  heard  a  steward  in  the  hall.  I 
called  to  him,  and  he  seemed  much  amused  to 
see  us  both  standing  on  the  lounge.  I  asked  him 
if  the  ship  was  going  to  the  bottom.  A  broad 
grin  overspread  his  jovial  British  face  and  he 
said,  "Go  to  the  bottom,  sir? — ^Why,  don't  you 
know  you  can't  sink  a  Cunarder!" 

After  that  we  had  better  weather,  but  between 
my  general  run-down  condition  and  fourteen  days 
of  seasickness  I  was  a  wreck  when  we  reached 
New  York. 

While  in  England  I  had  had  some  swelling  of 
the  lymphatic  glands  on  the  side  of  my  neck,  but 
so  ignorant  where  we  about  the  mechanism  of 
tuberculous  infection  at  that  time  that  this  symp- 
tom gave  me  no  alarm.  My  wife,  however, 
urged  me  to  see  a  well-known  English  physician 
in  Liverpool.     He  told  me  the  glands  were  an 

(68) 


evidence  of  a  run-down  condition  and  a  tendency 
to  scrofula;  advised  me  to  paint  them  with 
iodine,  eat  plenty  of  bacon  at  my  breakfast,  and 
gave  me  a  tonic  with  iron  in  it.  This  second  warn- 
ing of  tuberculous  infection  went  as  unheeded  as 
the  first,  and  I  never  realized  that  I  was  already 
infected  with  the  same  disease  that  had  run 
so  rapid  and  fatal  a  course  in  my  brother's 
case. 

As  we  both  loved  the  country  we  hired  the 
little  cottage  at  the  gate  of  Mr.  Douglas's  place 
and  I  decided  to  try  to  get  some  practice  on 
Long  Island.  My  wife  had  some  money  of  her 
own,  and  by  that  time  I  had  received  all  that 
was  coming  to  me  by  my  grandfather's  will,  and 
we  could  live  comfortably,  though  very  modestly, 
in  the  country  on  our  joint  income.  Our  little 
daughter  Charlotte,  always  known  as  "Chatte", 
was  born  in  the  Douglas  Cottage,  and  we  spent 
a  very  happy  and  peaceful  year  there.  I  soon 
tired,  however,  of  the  monotony  of  country  prac- 
tice and  the  lack  of  opportunity  for  advancing 
in  my  profession,  and  a  year  after  our  return  from 
Europe  we  moved  to  New  York. 

I  realized  that  we  could  not  live  in  New  York 
on  our  income,  but  decided  to  spend  some  of  my 
principal  until  I  got  started  in  practice.  After 
a  long  time  I  secured  a  three  years'  lease  of  a  six- 
teen foot  house.  No.  8  West  Forty-sixth  Street, 
as  the  price  was  low,  owing  to  its  being  next  to 
a  livery  stable,   but  the  location  was  excellent. 

(69) 


We  furnished  it,  and  had  not  been  settled  there 

two  months  when  one  of  my  attending  physicians 

at   the   hospital,  Dr.  Fessenden  Otis,  offered  me 

a  partnership  which  I  gladly  accepted.     He  was 

retiring  from  practice  and  would  send  me  in  his 

place  whenever  he  could,  giving  me  one-half  the 

fee  which  he  collected.     I  was  soon  making  from 

three  to  six  calls  daily  for  him,  and  had  a  class  for 

diseases  of  the  chest  at  the  Demilt  Dispensary 

with  my  friend  Dr.  Luis  P.  Walton,  where  we 

examined  and  prescribed  for  patients  together  for 

two  hours,  three  times  a  week.   Besides,  I  attended 

clinics  at  the  hospital. 

While  at  Little  Neck  I  had  had  on  two  or  three 

occasions  attacks  of  fever,  but  as  nearly  everybody 

had  malaria  I  was  told  it  was  malaria  and  took 

quinine  which,  however,  did  little  good.     After 

we  moved  into  town  I  felt  tired  all  the  time,  but 

thought  it  was  the  confinement  of  city  life  and 

paid  but  little  attention  to  it.     One  afternoon 

I  was  at  the  dispensary  with  Dr.  Walton,  and  he 

insisted  that  I  looked  ill  and  took  my  temperature. 

To  my  astonishment  it  was  loi.**    Walton  advised 

me  to  go  to  Dr.  Janeway  and  have  my  lungs 

examined,  but  I  laughed  at  the  idea.    Of  course 

there  could  be  nothing  the  matter  with  my  lungs! 

His   insistence   worried   me,    however,    and   next 

morning  as  I   went  by  Dr.  Janeway's  office  on 

West  Fourteenth  Street  the  idea  struck  me  that 

I  would  go  in  and  have  my  lungs  examined,  so  that 

next  time  Walton  berated  me  about  my  health 

(70) 


I  would  be  able  to  tell  him  there  was  nothing  the 
matter. 

Even  at  that  early  date  Dr.  Janeway's  great 
skill  in  physical  diagnosis  was  recognized,  and  he 
had  a  class  at  Bellevue  for  physical  diagnosis  to 
which  I  belonged.  He  received  me  cordially  and 
began  the  examination  at  once.  When  this  was 
concluded  he  said  nothing.  So  I  ventured,  "Well, 
Dr.  Janeway,  you  can  find  nothing  the  matter?" 
He  looked  grave  and  said,  "Yes,  the  upper  two- 
thirds  of  the  left  lung  is  involved  in  an  active 
tuberculous  process." 

I  think  I  know  something  of  the  feelings  of  the 
man  at  the  bar  who  is  told  he  is  to  be  hanged  on 
a  given  date,  for  in  those  days  pulmonary  consump- 
tion was  considered  as  absolutely  fatal.  I  pulled 
myself  together,  put  as  good  a  face  on  the  matter 
as  I  could,  and  escaped  from  the  office  after  thank- 
ing the  doctor  for  his  examination.  When  I 
got  outside,  as  I  stood  on  Dr.  Janeway's  stoop,  I 
felt  stunned.  It  seemed  to  me  the  world  had 
suddenly  grown  dark.  The  sun  was  shining,  it 
is  true,  and  the  street  was  filled  with  the  rush  and 
noise  of  traffic,  but  to  me  the  world  had  lost 
every  vestige  of  brightness.  I  had  consumption — 
that  most  fatal  of  diseases!  Had  I  not  seen  it 
in  all  its  horrors  in  my  brother's  case?  It  meant 
death  and  I  had  never  thought  of  death  before! 
Was  I  ready  to  die?  How  could  I  tell  my  wife, 
whom  I  had  just  left  in  unconscious  happiness 

with  the  little  baby  in  our  new  home?    And  my 

(71) 


rose-colored  dreams  of  achievement  and  profes- 
sional success  in  New  York!  They  were  all 
shattered  now,  and  in  their  place  only  exile  and 
the  inevitable  end  remained ! 

How  little  I  could  have  realized  then  how  many 
thousand  times  it  would  fall  to  my  lot  in  a  long 
professional  life  to  tell  other  human  beings  the 
same  dreadful  truth!  I  think  my  own  experience 
that  day  in  Dr.  Janeway's  office  was  never  for- 
gotten and  helped,  every  time  I  made  a  positive 
diagnosis  of  tuberculosis,  to  make  me  as  merciful 
as  was  compatible  with  truthfulness  and  the  wel- 
fare of  the  patient.  Besides,  it  was  not  many 
years  before  a  new  hope,  a  hope  which  it  was  part 
of  my  life's  work  to  help  develop  and  demonstrate, 
could  honestly  be  held  out  to  patients;  for  the 
diagnosis  of  tuberculosis  does  not  now  carry  the 
sinister  meaning  that  attached  to  it  in  the  early 
seventies. 


(72) 


VI 

I  WAS  still  stunned  when  I  reached  home,  and 
though  I  tried  to  make  the  result  of  Dr.  Jane- 
way's  examination  as  encouraging  as  possible,  my 
wife  soon  realized  the  ominous  import  of  what  he 
had  found,  and  together  we  discussed  the  future 
calmly.  We  were  in  the  month  of  February  and 
Dr.  Janeway  had  advised  me  to  go  South  at  once, 
so  we  started  for  Aiken  within  a  few  days.  I  had 
been  told  to  live  out  of  doors  and  ride  on  horse- 
back, and  no  doubt  I  made  matters  much  worse 
by  the  horseback  riding,  for  I  developed  daily 
fever  and  was  no  better  when  I  returned  to  New 
York  early  in  April. 

I  was  allowed  and  even  urged  to  exercise  daily, 
in  the  misguided  belief  that  it  would  improve  my 
appetite  and  keep  me  from  losing  strength;  but 
the  result  naturally  enough  was  that  my  fever 
kept  up  and  that  I  lost  weight  and  strength 
steadily. 

Another  baby  was  expected  soon  in  our  house- 
hold and  we  decided  to  make  no  plans  for  the 
summer  until  after  its  arrival.  My  friend  Dr. 
Walton  was  a  great  help  in  these  days,  and  by  his 
interest  and  daily  calls  did  what  he  could  to  cheer 
us  both.     I  had  to  give  up  work,  however,  and 

(73) 


as  sickness  was  a  new  experience  to  me  at  that 
time  I  rebelled  and  struggled  against  it  and 
was  thoroughly  unnerved  by  it.  I  have  had 
ample  opportunity  in  the  past  forty  years  to  get 
used  to  illness  and  suffering;  but  it  took  me  a 
long  time  to  learn,  imperfectly  though  it  be,  that 
acquiescence  is  the  only  way  for  the  tuberculous 
invalid  to  conquer  fate.  To  cease  to  rebel  and 
struggle,  and  to  learn  to  be  content  with  part  of 
a  loaf  when  one  cannot  have  a  whole  loaf,  though 
a  hard  lesson  to  learn,  is  good  philosophy  for 
the  tuberculous  invalid,  and  to  his  astonishment 
he  often  finds  that  what  he  considers  the  half- 
loaf,  when  acquiesced  in,  proves  most  satisfying. 
It  was  many  years,  however,  before  I  learned  this 
great  lesson,  but  when  once  learned  it  made  life 
fuller  and  happier. 

Lou  Livingston  did  all  he  could  to  cheer  me  up 
in  his  own  way,  which  was  generally  to  take  me 
off  somewhere  and  amuse  me.  I  remember  on 
one  beautiful  spring  day  he  called  with  the  stirring 
announcement  that  I  was  to  drive  down  with 
him  to  Union  Track,  Long  Island,  where  a  wonder- 
ful shooting  match  was  to  take  place  between 
Paul  Smith,  the  well-known  guide  and  hotel 
keeper,  and,  as  I  remember  it  now,  a  gentleman 
called  Harry  Park,  who  was  prominent  on  the 
Stock  Exchange.  Neither  of  the  contestants, 
both  middle-aged  men,  had  ever  shot  a  bird  on 
the  wing,  and  the  match  was  to  be  for  one  thousand 
potatoes,  and  followed  by  a  dinner  and  a  general 

(74) 


pigeon-shooting  sweepstakes,  open  to  all  comers 
at  the  entry  of  five  dollars,  "miss  and  out." 
Lou  Livingston  was  a  crack  pigeon  shot  and 
expected  to  take  part  in  the  sweepstakes  and  win 
some  money. 

On  a  trip  to  the  Adirondacks  two  years  before 
with  my  good  friend  Mrs.  Livingston  and  Lou 
Livingston,  I  had  been  at  Paul  Smith's  and  knew 
him  personally;  so  though  I  felt  miserably  ill  I 
got  into  the  trotting  wagon  with  Lou  Livingston 
and  we  started.  A  goodly  collection  of  sports 
had  gathered  on  the  main  track  for  the  event, 
and  much  fun  was  occasioned  by  Paul  Smith's 
and  Mr.  Park's  futile  efforts  at  stopping  the  swift 
pigeons  as  they  flew  from  the  traps.  Liquid 
refreshments  were  in  order,  and  a  glass  of  cham- 
pagne seemed  to  obliterate  my  ill  feelings.  I  had 
never  shot  pigeons  from  a  trap,  and  had  no  idea 
as  to  whether  or  not  I  had  any  skill  with  a  shot- 
gun, except  that  I  had  killed  a  fair  proportion  of 
ducks  and  snipe  on  the  few  occasions  I  had  been 
hunting  with  the  Livingstons.  Mr.  H.  D.  Pol- 
hemus,  a  big,  warm-hearted  sportsman  whom  I 
had  met  at  Paul  Smith's  on  my  trip  to  the  Adiron- 
dacks two  years  before,  seemed  very  sympathetic 
as  to  my  evident  illness,  and  insisted  that  I  take 
a  wonderful  gun  he  had  and  enter  the  sweepstakes 
with  the  rest,  and  finally  I  consented.  It  was 
a  handicap  match,  and  as  I  had  never  shot  pigeons 
before,  I  was  put  at  sixteen  yards,  while  Lou 
Livingston  had  to  stand  at  thirty-two  yards  from 

(75) 


the  traps.  It  was  five  dollars  for  each  man  to 
enter,  and  as  soon  as  a  man  missed  his  bird  he 
went  "out,"  the  last  man  "in"  taking  the  stakes. 
From  eight  to  ten  men  entered  the  first  sweepstake 
and,  to  my  astonishment,  the  "miss  and  out" 
business  didn't  seem  to  apply  to  me,  for  I  didn't 
miss  any  of  my  birds  and  was  handed  the  stakes, 
much  to  Lou  Livingston's  and  Mr.  Polhemus's  de- 
light. I  was  moved  four  yards  back  and  we  began 
another  sweepstake,  which  ended  in  the  same 
way.  I  was  so  weak  I  could  hardly  stand,  but 
the  excitement  of  my  unexpected  success  and  an 
occasional  glass  of  champagne  seemed  entirely 
to  steady  me,  and  it  appeared  to  me  easy  to  cover 
the  fast  flying  pigeons. 

After  I  had  won  the  third  sweepstake  I  was 
put  back  six  yards  further.  Lou  Livingston  came 
to  me  and  said  some  of  the  men  thought  he  had 
played  a  trick  on  them  by  presenting  me  as  a 
novice  while  I  probably  was  an  old  hand  at  the 
traps,  and  he  advised  that  I  should  spend  the 
money  I  was  winning  as  freely  as  I  could  for  food 
and  drink  for  the  participants.  I  announced  that 
food  and  wine  would  be  free  for  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon,  and,  with  assurances  from  Mr.  Pol- 
hemus  and  Paul  Smith,  who  knew  me,  good  feeling 
was  again  restored.  I  shot  one  more  sweepstake 
and  won  that  and  then  we  went  home.  Although 
I  won  a  number  of  matches  in  my  life  afterward, 
I  don't  think  I  ever  shot  so  well  as  I  did  on  that 
day,  sick  as  I  was. 

(76) 


Of  course  I  was  exhausted  the  next  day  and  had 
to  remain  in  bed  with  a  high  fever.  I  grew  steadily 
worse  and  had  to  keep  my  bed  most  of  the  time. 
My  doctor  friends  all  urged  an  immediate  change 
to  the  mountains,  but  I  decided  to  stay  until  the 
baby  was  born  and  my  wife  safely  through  the 
ordeal.  Lou  Livingston  stood  by  me  as  usual, 
and  said  he  was  ready  to  take  me  to  Paul  Smith's 
as  soon  as  I  would  go  and  stay  with  me  until  I 
was  better. 

Our  boy  was  born  on  May  i8,  1873,  and  a  week 
later  Lou  Livingston  and  I  set  out  for  Paul 
Smith's.  Dr.  Walton  was  the  greatest  comfort 
at  that  time,  and  assured  me  he  would  look  after 
my  wife  and  "those  dreadful  little  Trudeau  brats", 
and  he  certainly  kept  his  word.  After  my  wife 
and  babies  were  moved  down  to  her  father's 
rectory  at  Little  Neck,  Walton  all  through  the 
summer  made  regular  pilgrimages  to  Little  Neck 
and  reported  to  me  of  their  welfare,  while  assuring 
me  what  a  nuisance  it  was  to  have  to  look  after 
another  man's  family.  His  friendly  watchfulness 
of  my  dear  ones  and  his  letters  were  the  greatest 
comfort. 

I  was  influenced  in  my  choice  of  the  Adiron- 

dacks  only  by  my  love  for  the  great  forest  and  the 

wild  life,  and  not  at  all  because  I  thought  the 

climate  would  be  beneficial  in  any  way,  for  the 

Adirondacks  were  then  visited  only  by  hunters 

and  fishermen  and  it  was  looked  upon  as  a  rough, 

inaccessible  region  and  considered  a  most  inclement 

(77) 


and  trying  climate.  I  had  been  to  Paul  Smith's 
in  the  summer  on  two  occasions  before  on  short 
visits  with  my  friend  Lou  Livingston  and  his 
mother,  and  had  been  greatly  attracted  by  the 
beautiful  lakes,  the  great  forest,  the  hunting  and 
fishing,  and  the  novelty  of  the  free  and  wild  life 
there.  If  I  had  but  a  short  time  to  live,  I  yearned 
for  surroundings  that  appealed  to  me,  and  it 
seemed  to  meet  a  longing  I  had  for  rest  and  the 
peace  of  the  great  wilderness. 

It  was  a  sad  home-leaving,  as  my  wife  and  my 
friends  considered  me  most  seriously  if  not  hope- 
lessly ill,  and  she  was  still  in  bed  with  the  baby  at 
her  side  and  little  Chatte  in  the  nurse's  arms. 
Dr.  Walton  saw  me  off  and  comforted  me  by  his 
promises  to  look  after  "the  wife  and  kids",  and 
help  my  little  family  to  move  down  to  the  rectory 
at  Little  Neck  for  the  summer.  I  finally  tore 
myself  away  and  was  helped  into  the  cab  by  my 
friend  Lou,  who  at  once  began  to  dilate  on  what 
sport  we  should  have  at  Paul's;  but  my  heart 
was  heavier  than  it  had  been  since  by  brother's 
death. 

The  first  day  we  went  to  Saratoga  by  train  and 
rested  there  overnight,  and  the  next  day  by  train 
to  Whitehall  and  by  boat  through  Lake  Cham- 
plain,  reaching  Plattsburg  at  supper  time.  I 
had  a  raging  fever  all  day,  went  to  bed  at  once 
on  reaching  the  Fouquet  House,  and  was  too  ill 
and  weak  the  next  morning  to  attempt  the  long 
trip  into  the  wilderness  to  Paul  Smith's,  so  we 

(78) 


had  to  wait  at  Plattsburg  two  days.  Lou  Living- 
ston told  me  afterwards  that  the  hotel  people 
had  tried  to  dissuade  him  from  taking  me  on  such 
a  long  journey  and  to  such  a  rough  and  remote 
place  as  Paul  Smith's,  and  had  urged  him  to  induce 
me  to  return  home.  Whenever  he  hinted  at  a 
return  home,  however,  I  was  evidently  so  upset 
at  the  idea  that  he  decided  to  go  on  with  me. 

On  the  third  day  we  started  on  a  little  branch 
iron-ore  road  for  Ausable  Forks  where  the  mines 
were,  and  from  there  we  had  to  drive  forty-two 
miles  to  Paul  Smith's,  most  of  which  was  over  a 
rough  corduroy  road.  While  I  was  resting  Lou 
hired  an  old-fashioned  two-horse  stage-wagon, 
put  a  board  between  the  seats,  and  with  a  mattress 
and  a  couple  of  pillows  arranged  me  so  that  I 
could  lie  down  all  the  way  quite  comfortably. 
All  day  long  we  crept  up  the  hills  at  a  snail's 
pace,  and  trotted  down  the  hills  and  on  the  level 
road  until  I  thought  we  must  have  gone  fifty 
miles  at  least.  I  stood  the  jolting  pretty  well 
until  afternoon,  when  the  fever  and  the  fatigue 
made  the  rough  shaking  of  the  wagon  almost 
unbearable.  Lou  Livingston  smoked  innumer- 
able pipes,  conversed  with  the  driver,  with  whom 
he  made  friends  over  occasional  little  nips  from 
his  flask,  and  they  seemed  very  happy  and  com- 
fortable; but  for  me  it  certainly  was  an  afternoon 
of  misery. 

The  sun  was  just  setting  as  I  caught  sight  of 
the  great  pines  around  Paul  Smith's,  and  in  a 

(79) 


minute  we  were  driving  up  to  the  door  of  the 
hostelry,  a  swarm  of  guides  and  fishermen  were 
clambering  off  the  steps  and  the  horse-block,  and 
many  hands  extended  in  welcome.  Fred  Martin, 
Mrs.  Paul  Smith's  brother  and  one  of  the  most 
splendid,  sturdy  specimens  of  manhood  I  have 
ever  seen,  was  about  to  give  my  hand  a  squeeze 
•  that  would,  no  doubt,  have  finished  me,  when  I 
whispered  to  him  I  was  sick  and  wanted  to  be 
carried  up  to  my  room.  He  picked  me  up  as  if 
I  had  been  an  infant,  and  went  up  two  flights 
of  stairs,  two  steps  at  a  time,  opened  the  door  of 
a  room  I  had  occupied  before,  and  put  me  down 
on  the  bed  with  a  pained  expression  and  the  com- 
forting remark, 

"Why,  Doctor,  you  don't  weigh  no  more  than 
a  dried  lamb-skin!" 

We  both  laughed,  and  indeed  I  was  so  happy 
at  reaching  my  destination  and  seeing  the  beautiful 
lake  again,  the  mountains  and  the  forest  all 
around  me,  that  I  could  hardly  have  been  depressed 
by  anything  Fred  Martin  could  have  said. 

During  the  entire  journey  I  had  felt  gloomy 
forebodings  as  to  the  hopelessness  of  my  case, 
but,  under  the  magic  influence  of  the  surroundings 
I  had  longed  for,  these  all  disappeared  and  I  felt 
convinced  I  was  going  to  recover.  How  little  I 
knew,  as  I  shook  hands  with  the  great,  strong  men 
who  came  up  to  my  room  that  evening  to  say  a 
word  of  cheer  to  me,  that  forty-two  years  later 
most  of  them  would  be  dead  and  that  I  should  still 

(80) 


be  in  the  Adirondacks  and  trying  to  describe  my 
first  arrival  at  Paul  Smith's  as  an  invalid! 

Soon  Katie  Martin,  Mrs.  Paul  Smith's  pretty 
sister,  came  in  with  a  word  of  welcome  and  cheer 
and  a  tray  on  which  were  eggs,  brook  trout,  pan- 
cakes and  coffee,  and  I  ate  heartily  and  with  a 
real  relish  for  the  first  time  in  many  a  long  week. 

Paul  Smith's  at  that  time  was  a  very  different 
place  from  what  it  has  become  in  these  days  of 
Pullman  trains,  automobiles,  speed  launches  and 
parlor  camps.  Things  were  very  primitive  but 
most  comfortable.  There  was  no  running  water 
in  the  hotel,  and  a  trip  to  the  spring  under  the 
bank  with  a  pail  supplied  the  drinking  water; 
but  Mrs.  Paul  Smith's  influence  was  seen  every- 
where in  the  house,  in  the  clean  and  comfortable 
rooms,  the  good  beds,  the  excellent  cooking  which 
she  did  or  supervised  herself,  and  the  feeling  of 
welcome  and  home  with  which  she  impressed  all 
her  guests. 

Paul  Smith's  strong  personality  also  pervaded 
the  place.  He  had  a  keen,  incisive  sense  of  humor 
and  was  a  jovial  host,  abounding  in  jokes  and 
good  stories  which  he  told  at  the  expense  of  guides 
and  sportsmen  alike.  He  divided  his  time  then 
between  his  duties  as  host,  and,  especially  during 
the  hunting  season,  his  duties  as  guide.  His 
duties  as  host  sat  very  lightly  on  him,  however, 
as  he  had  learned  that  with  Mrs.  Smith  at  the 
helm  his  responsibilities  need  give  him  no  anxiety; 
but  he  derived  much  pleasure  from  his  guiding 

(81) 


experiences,  not  so  much  because  he  was  keen 
about  the  sport  as  because  he  enjoyed  the  com- 
panionship, the  pecuHarities  and  the  mistakes  of 
the  city  sportsmen  he  guided,  whom  he  looked 
upon  as  curious  specimens  of  mankind.  I  can 
see  him  in  the  center  of  the  little  dining-room, 
after  having  put  out  his  hounds  in  the  morning 
hunt,  beaming  with  good  nature  and  standing 
in  his  shirt-sleeves,  with  four  or  five  dog-chains 
still  slung  over  his  shoulders,  carving  the  venison 
or  roast  for  his  guests  and  joking  with  everybody 
around  him.  This  was  before  his  shrewd  land 
transactions  had  made  him  a  rich  man;  but  his 
riches  never  altered  his  personality  in  the  least. 

Paul  Smith  was  no  respecter  of  persons,  though 
he  was  very  fond  of  his  fellow-men.  He  was 
always  inclined  rather  to  laugh  at  their  faults 
than  to  condemn  them,  and  this  was  because  his 
estimate  of  humanity  was  not  very  high.  He 
thought  that  in  most  men,  as  in  most  things  in 
life,  there  was  a  good  share  of  humbug.  Most 
men  might  be  honest  or  might  think  they  were, 
but  as  a  rule  his  estimate  of  his  fellow-beings  was 
like  that  of  the  Irishman  who  said  his  friend  was 
"perfectly  honest  but  would  bear  watching". 

He  had  little  respect  for  the  learned  professions: 
clergymen,  lawyers,  doctors  were  in  his  opinion 
more  or  less  inclined  to  humbug  the  public.  He 
had  little  faith  in  any  of  them,  or  in  high  education. 
He  thought  a  man  was  born  "smart"  and  that  no 
amount  of  "book-learning"  could  make  him  smart, 

(82) 


though  it  might  enable  him  to  hoodwink  the 
public  into  thinking  him  so  and  thus  redound 
to  his  advantage.  His  low  opinion  of  "book- 
learning"  was  admirably  shown  one  day  when 
a  gentleman  well  known  in  New  York  society — 
who  had  been  graduated  from  several  universities 
and  had  every  advantage  education  could  give 
him — came  up  to  us  as  we  sat  talking  on  the 
verandah,  and  began  to  point  out  to  Paul  what 
mistakes  he  had  made  in  the  management  of 
several  matters  connected  with  his  business  and 
how  he  could  rectify  them.  Paul  shut  one  eye  and 
nodded  his  head  in  apparent  acquiescence;  but 
when  the  gentleman  had  gone  he  turned  to  me 
and  said,  "Doctor,  there  is  no  fool  like  an  educated 
fool".  Paul,  though  not  highly  educated,  was 
certainly  no  fool,  and  his  business  ventures  proved 
him  a  match  for  the  shrewdest  and  best-trained 
minds. 

His  land  speculations  and  his  buying  of  all  the 
water  powers  on  the  Saranac  River  before  anyone 
else  had  suspected  their  value,  was  a  striking 
example  of  his  far-sightedness. 

A  man  of  unusual  physical  strength,  he  was 
rather  apathetic  and  indolent  in  temperament, 
but  when  once  aroused,  the  personification  of 
vigorous  and  forceful  activity.  In  a  memorable 
journey  through  the  snow  from  Malone,  in  1875, 
with  my  family,  had  it  not  been  for  his  resource- 
ful energy  we  certainly  would  have  all  suffered 
terribly. 

(83) 


When  death  and  sorrow  came  to  us,  and  Chatte 
and  Ned  were  taken,  Paul  and  his  sons  made  us 
feel  they  were  indeed  true  friends.  My  wife 
and  I  will  never  forget  their  acts  of  friendly  and 
helpful  sympathy  at  these  times. 

Paul  Smith's  was  then  only  a  sporting  hostelry, 
the  resort  of  hunters  and  fishermen,  and  few 
ladies  and  no  children  were  ever  seen  among 
the  guests.  When  Lou  Livingston  and  I  reached 
there  about  the  first  of  June,  W.  C.  Prime  and 
his  friend,  W.  Bridge,  two  picturesque  sporting 
figures,  were  at  their  usual  post  doing  their  spring 
fishing;  and  most  entertaining  companions  they 
proved  to  be,  for  Mr.  Prime  had  travelled  all 
over  the  world  and  had  seen  many  strange  coun- 
tries. 

I  slept  well  and  woke  full  of  hope  and  anticipa- 
tion and  interest  in  my  new  surroundings.  The 
first  thing  I  did  was  to  secure  a  guide,  and  Warren 
Flanders  was  engaged  by  me  and  George  Martin 
by  Lou  Livingston.  The  old  Adirondack  guides 
were  most  striking  personalities  and  an  interest- 
ing lot  of  men,  like  children  about  many  things, 
a  happy,  easy-going  lot,  who  took  no  care  for 
the  morrow  and  enjoyed  life  for  life's  sake. 
Although  as  in  all  other  callings  there  were  good 
guides  and  poor  guides,  they  generally  knew  their 
business  pretty  thoroughly  in  those  days.  Some 
of  them,  however,  never  could  learn  to  find  their 
way  in  the  woods,  as  this  seems  an  attribute 
that    a    man    is   born   with,    which    cannot   well 

(84) 


be  learned.  In  one  well-known  family  at  St.  Regis 
several  of  the  young  men  were  good  guides  in 
every  other  respect,  but  not  one  of  them  could 
"put  out  dogs" — that  is,  travel  in  the  woods  all 
day  in  constantly  varying  directions  and  return 
at  will.  On  the  other  hand,  some  of  the  most 
uneducated  seemed  to  know  always  just  where 
they  were  and  in  which  direction  to  travel  to  reach 
camp  in  a  straight  line.  Most  of  them  carried 
compasses  to  help  them  keep  their  direction.  I 
had  a  guide  the  first  winter  I  spent  at  Paul 
Smith's  who,  like  many  of  his  mates,  would 
occasionally  drink  more  than  was  good  for  him. 
So  keen  was  his  sense  of  locality  that  several 
times  while  hunting  for  me,  after  walking  for 
half  a  day,  starting  each  dog  after  a  separate 
deer  and  celebrating  each  event  by  a  drink  from 
his  flask,  he  would  be  overcome  by  his  indul- 
gences and  could  walk  no  further.  He  would  then 
lie  down  and  sleep  wherever  he  happened  to  be 
late  in  the  afternoon,  but  he  never  lay  out  all 
night.  He  would  come  straight  back,  through 
miles  of  unbroken  forest,  guided  only  by  an 
instinct  which  was  bom  in  him  and  which  even 
his  confused  wanderings  while  under  the  influence 
of  alcohol  could  not  efface. 

He  was  a  strange  personality,  always  poor, 
and  thoroughly  ignorant  and  superstitious.  A 
good  idea  of  his  reasoning  powers  and  methods 
in  life  was  shown  by  the  way  he  treated  his 
hounds.     I  noticed  during  the  winter  I   was  at 

(85) 


Paul  Smith's  that  the  six  dogs  he  had  were  very 
thin  and  always  ravenous,  and  I  spoke  to  him 
about  it.  He  gave  me,  as  a  perfectly  good  reason, 
the  information  that  his  wife  always  baked  one 
pan  of  corn-meal  each  day  for  the  dogs.  Last 
year  he  had  only  three  and  they  did  very  well, 
but  this  year  he  had  six  and  the  corn-cake  cut 
in  six  pieces  made  a  thin  meal  for  the  hungry 
hounds;  but  then  he  said,  "You  know  if  my  dogs 
can't  live  on  that  pan  of  corn-cake,  why  they 
can  starve  if  they  choose!"  I  don't  think  it 
ever  occurred  to  him  to  cook  two  pans  of  corn- 
meal  instead  of  one  when  he  had  six  dogs. 

Each  guide  had  his  specialty.  Some  were  bet- 
ter fishermen  and  others,  who  were  the  real 
woodsmen,  better  hunters.  A  really  good  guide 
could  contribute  greatly  to  the  success  and  com- 
fort of  a  hunting  or  fishing  trip,  while  a  poor  guide 
would  make  it  a  discomfort  and  a  failure.  Really 
good  guides  were  certainly  experts  at  their  busi- 
ness, and  easily  earned  their  two  and  a  half  or 
three  dollars  a  day.  A  good  guide  was  first  of 
all  a  truthful  man  whose  word  could  be  relied 
upon;  he  was  a  skilled  oarsman,  and  often  car- 
ried his  boat  on  his  back  for  miles  from  one  lake 
to  another;  a  thorough  woodsman,  with  all  that 
implies  of  fishing,  hunting  and  wood-lore;  a 
good  cook,  resourceful  in  emergencies,  and  an 
excellent  companion.  One  or  two  of  them — 
Fitz  Greene  Hallock  and  Albert  McKenzie — 
besides  possessing  all  these  qualities  to  the  full, 

(86) 


have  been  for  a  lifetime  the  best  and  truest  of 
personal  friends  to  me. 

Warren  Flanders  came  to  my  room  after  break- 
fast and  told  me  he  had  fixed  the  boat  "comfort- 
able" with  balsam  boughs  and  blankets  so  that 
I  could  lie  down  in  it,  had  put  my  rifle  in,  and  if 
I  felt  up  to  it  we  would  row  down  the  river  to 
Keese's  Mill  "kind  of  slow"  and  see  what  we 
could  see.  My  hunting  blood  responded  at  once 
and  I  was  soon  in  the  boat..  It  was  a  beautiful 
sunny  June  day,  the  sky  and  water  were  blue, 
and  the  trees  resplendent  in  their  spring  foliage; 
and  as  I  lay  comfortably  on  the  soft  boughs  in 
the  stern  of  the  boat,  with  my  rifle  in  reach 
across  the  gunwale,  my  spirits  were  high  and  I 
forgot  all  the  misery  and  sickness  I  had  gone 
through  in  the  past  two  months. 

The  guide  kept  looking  ahead  from  time  to 
time.  All  at  once  he  stopped,  suddenly  turning 
the  boat  sidewise.  On  a  point  about  two  hun- 
dred yards  away  I  saw  two  deer:  a  buck  and  a 
doe  were  feeding.  I  never  sat  up,  but  rested  my 
rifle  on  the  side  of  the  boat  and  fired  at  the  buck 
who,  after  a  few  jumps,  fell  dead  at  the  edge  of  the 
woods.  Warren  went  ashore,  loaded  the  deer  in 
the  boat  and  we  returned  to  the  hotel.  If  any 
game  laws  existed  in  those  days  they  didn't  apply 
to  the  Adirondack  wilderness,  for  it  was  the  cus- 
tom to  shoot  game  and  catch  fish  at  any  season, 
provided  they  were  used  as  food  and  not  sent 
out  of  the  woods  for  sale. 

(87) 


I  got  back  quite  triumphant  to  the  hotel,  and 
Lou  Livingston,  Paul  Smith  and  the  guides, 
who  were  very  sympathetic  about  my  illness, 
seemed  delighted  that  I  had  had  such  good  sport 
on  the  first  day  of  my  arrival. 


(88) 


VII 

THIS  was  my  first  personal  experience  as  a 
patient  in  the  Adirondacks,  and  rather  differ- 
ent from  the  first  day  spent  by  most  patients  who 
come  now  to  Saranac  Lake  as  ill  as  I  was  then! 
The  change,  the  stimulus  of  renewed  hope  and 
the  constant  open-air  life  had  a  wonderful  effect 
on  my  health.  I  soon  began  to  eat  and  sleep,  and 
lost  my  fever.  At  that  time  we  had  no  idea  of 
the  essential  value  of  rest,  but  as  I  often  spent 
the  entire  day  in  the  boat,  fishing  or  being  rowed 
about  from  place  to  place  or  watching  the  lake 
for  deer,  I  unconsciously  was  kept  at  rest.  My 
anxiety  about  my  family  was  entirely  relieved  by 
frequent  letters  from  my  wife  and  good  friend 
Walton,  who  sent  me  regular  reports  of  "the 
brats"  every  two  weeks,  in  which  he  fulminated, 
after  his  usual  manner,  on  the  nuisance  of  having 
to  go  out  into  the  country  to  see  them;  but 
the  reports  were  all  good,  and  my  improvement 
day  by  day  became  more  manifest. 

At  the  end  of  July  Lou  Livingston  had  to 
return  home.  I  saw  but  little  of  this  good  friend 
of  my  youth  in  after  life,  though  he  came  to  see 
me  for  two  days  during  the  winter  we  spent  at 

C89) 


Paul  Smith's.  He  continued  to  live  in  New  York 
for  many  years  and  as  far  as  I  know  never  had 
a  day's  illness,  but  died  suddenly  of  heart  disease. 
How  different  our  experiences  in  life !  This  strong 
man,  who  never  came  in  contact  with  illness  or 
knew  what  it  means  to  be  ill,  has  been  dead  many 
years,  while  I  have  spent  forty  years  in  the  midst 
of  the  sick,  ever  in  poor  health,  and  for  the  past 
ten  years  so  ill  as  to  be  entirely  incapacitated 
for  months  at  a  time. 

Another  friend  of  mine  and  the  Livingstons, 
E.  H.  Harriman,  offered  to  come  up  and  look 
after  me  and  spend  most  of  the  month  of  August 
with  me.  A  telegram  which  read,  "Head  me — 
here  I  come.  E.  H.  H."  preceded  his  arrival  by 
a  few  hours.  Paul  Smith  had  purchased  some- 
where a  gilt  ball  which  with  great  pride  he  had 
had  placed  on  the  flag-pole  in  front  of  the  hotel. 
I  told  Paul  that  I  knew  if  Ed  Harriman  caught 
sight  of  that  ball  when  he  arrived  the  first  thing 
he  would  do  would  be  to  shoot  at  it.  As  the  stage 
stopped  Ed  Harriman  jumped  out,  rifle  in  hand, 
caught  sight  of  the  bright  ball  at  the  top  of  the 
flag-pole,  and  put  a  bullet  through  it  before  shak- 
ing hands  with  us  all. 

This  was  before  Mr.  Harriman  had  begun  his 
wonderful  career  as  a  railroad  organizer  and  a 
great  financier — for  I  believe  he  still  was  a  clerk 
in  the  office  of  D.  C.  Hays  &  Company  at  that 
time — and  a  more  light-hearted  and  better  com- 
panion and  friend  I  could  not  have  had.     Many 

(90) 


DR.    TRUDEAU,    THE    HUNTSMAN    (1873) 
THREE    MONTHS    AFTER    ARRIVAL    AT    PAUL    SMITHS 


were  the  joyous,  beautiful  summer  days  we  spent 
floating  over  the  lakes  in  our  boats,  hunting, 
fishing,  and  camping  together  wherever  we  fan- 
cied to  stop  for  the  night.  Mr.  Harriman  was  an 
excellent  shot  with  a  rifle  and  we  soon  became 
rivals,  especially  in  the  sport  of  loon  hunting. 
The  loon  is  a  sort  of  avian  submarine  when 
hunted  from  a  boat,  never  flying,  but  diving 
and  coming  up  unexpectedly  at  constantly  vary- 
ing distances,  and  then  showing  only  his  head 
above  the  water  for  a  few  seconds  before  diving 
again.  The  loon  is  as  elusive  a  mark  to  shoot 
at  with  a  rifle  from  a  moving  boat  as  anybody 
could  possibly  wish  for. 

We  were  both  light-hearted  young  men  in 
those  joyous  days,  and  little  did  either  of  us 
know  what  responsibilities  and  struggles  the 
future  held  in  store  for  us  and  how  absolutely 
divergent  would  be  the  paths  Fate  had  marked 
out  for  us  to  walk  in.  Many  years  afterwards, 
when  the  financial  and  railroad  world  was  ring- 
ing with  Mr.  Harriman's  name,  he  came  to 
Paul  Smith's  in  his  private  car  to  see  me,  and 
at  Dr.  Seward  Webb's  invitation  he  went  down 
to  inspect  some  of  the  lakes  on  Dr.  Webb's  won- 
derful forest  preserve,  taking  me  along  with 
him.  A  special  engine  was  sent  up  by  the  New 
York  Central  at  his  order  to  take  the  car  where- 
ever  he  wanted  to  go,  and  Dr.  Webb's  guides 
and  saddle-horses  were  to  meet  us  when  we 
arrived.     As  I  remarked  upon  the  beauty  and 

(91) 


comfort  of  his  car  some  recollections  of  the  old 
days  must  have  crossed  his  mind,  for  he  looked 
up  at  me  with  his  keen  smile  and  said, 

"This  is  not  half  as  much  fun,  Ed,  as  the 
way  we  travelled  about  in  the  old  days  that  sum- 
mer at  Paul  Smith's."  And  he  was  right,  for 
it  certainly  was  not. 

However  divergent  our  paths  and  interests  in 
life  proved  to  be,  and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  we 
saw  each  other  only  at  rare  intervals,  the  old 
friendship  between  us  through  a  lifetime  ever 
remained  the  same,  and  he  never  neglected  an 
opportunity  to  show  me  that  it  was  so.  In  spite 
of  his  fame  and  power  and  riches,  his  manner 
toward  me  never  changed  in  the  least.  If  I 
called  on  him  when  I  went  to  New  York,  and 
found  as  usual  many  influential  financiers  and 
great  railroad  presidents  waiting  for  an  inter- 
view with  him,  he  would  keep  them  all  waiting 
no  matter  who  they  were,  until  he  had  taken 
time  to  greet  me  and  hear  how  things  were  going 
in  the  Adirondacks.  His  friendship  for  me  was 
always  expressed  in  deeds  and  not  in  words. 
At  intervals  in  life  when  great  sorrows  swept 
over  me  and  nearly  crushed  me,  I  felt  at  once  his 
helpful  hand  and  strong  and  sustaining  person- 
ality, and  all  that  a  good  friend  could  do  to  help 
he  quietly  did  for  me. 

When  my  health  broke  down  almost  completely 
in  1902,  he  urged  me  to  go  to  California  in  February 
for  a  two  months'  trip.    He  placed  at  our  disposal 

(92) 


a  private  car,  in  charge  of  one  of  the  best  stewards 
on  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad,  provisioned  it 
thoroughly,  put  orders  on  board  to  other  roads 
to  convey  us  wherever  we  might  want  to  go, 
and  told  me  to  go  and  rest  and  amuse  myself 
awhile.  Unfortunately  I  was  taken  ill  in  Red- 
lands,  and  though  we  enjoyed  every  minute  of 
the  trip,  it  seemed  to  do  my  health  little  good. 

Beset  on  all  sides  by  keen  enemies  who  plotted 
his  overthrow,  and  by  seeming  friends  who  were 
too  often  ready  to  betray  his  confidence,  Mr. 
Harriman  no  doubt  learned  the  wisdom  of  keeping 
his  own  counsel  and  trusting  very  few  men.  He 
showed  me,  however,  on  many  occasions  that  he 
trusted  me,  and  I  believe  he  never  had  any  reason 
to  think  that  his  confidence  had  been  misplaced. 
People  often  tried  to  learn  his  views  on  financial 
matters  by  questioning  me,  but  I  could  always 
tell  them  frankly,  what  was  really  true,  that  if 
there  was  one  thing  that  we  did  not  discuss  when 
together  it  was  his  business  and  his  railroads. 

He  had  a  keen  sense  of  humor,  and  I  think  was 
often  much  amused  at  my  ingenuousness  about 
business  matters.  We  both  belonged  to  a  little 
hunting  and  fishing  club  at  Little  Rapids,  with 
two  other  friends  of  mine.  Mr.  Harriman  rarely 
went  there,  but  insisted,  as  did  my  other  two 
friends  for  the  same  reason,  on  holding  his  member- 
ship for  many  years,  paying  his  share  of  the 
expenses  of  the  little  Club,  because  he  knew  I 
loved  to  go  there  with  my  family  for  rest  and 

(93) 


recreation  when  the  strain  of  my  work  was  too 
much  for  me.  On  one  occasion  I  wanted  to  add 
to  our  small  land  holdings  so  as  to  get  more  hunt- 
ing and  fishing  ground,  and  asked  him  if  he  would 
care  to  invest  a  few  thousand  dollars  in  such  wild 
land.  He  said  he  would,  and  listened  to  me  as  I 
enthusiastically  dilated  on  the  advantages  of  the 
proposed  purchase.  When  I  ended  by  saying, 
"It  seems  well  worth  the  money  to  me,  but  you 
must  decide,  as  I  don't  want  you  to  'get  stuck' 
if  you  buy  it,"  he  smiled  as  he  touched  me  on  the 
arm  and  said,  "Ed,  don't  you  ever  worry  about 
my  getting  stuck." 

He  left  for  Alaska  a  few  days  later  with  the 
expedition  he  had  organized,  which  he  had  invited 
Mrs.  Trudeau  and  me  to  join,  taking  my  son  Ned 
with  him.  To  show  how  keen  his  memory  was 
for  detail  and  how  good  a  friend  he  was  to  me, 
in  spite  of  the  pressure  of  the  great  responsibilities 
to  be  adjusted  and  arranged  for  before  his  depar- 
ture for  so  long  an  absence  and  the  cares  of 
preparation  for  his  large  expedition,  he  did  not 
forget  me.  A  few  days  after  his  departure  I  had 
a  note  from  his  secretary,  saying  Mr.  Harriman 
had  left  instructions  that  if  I  decided  to  buy  any 
land  I  could  draw  on  his  office  for  any  sum  needed 
up  to  forty  thousand  dollars.  I  was  afraid  of 
"getting  him  stuck,"  however,  and  did  not  avail 
myself  of  his  friendly  offer. 

I  never  knew  a  calmer  or  more  self-contained 
man  than  Mr.  Harriman,  and  until  physical  com- 

(94) 


plications  broke  down  his  health  he  seemed  abso- 
lutely unruffled  by  the  stress  and  strain  of  the 
great  business  struggles  in  which  he  constantly 
took  so  prominent  a  part.  I  remember  I  happened 
to  be  in  town  on  the  day  before  Wall  Street's 
great  panic  in  1907,  and  I  got  a  telephone  message 
from  him  saying  he  was  going  down  to  his  country 
place  at  Arden  early  in  the  afternoon  to  stay  over 
night,  and  asking  me  to  accompany  him  and  we 
could  have  a  good  drive  together.  We  spent  the 
afternoon  driving  and  the  evening  smoking  and 
talking,  and  at  ten  o'clock  started  for  bed.  Not 
a  word  had  been  said  about  business,  but  I  knew 
from  scare  headlines  in  the  newspapers  that  a 
panic  was  imminent.  As  we  parted  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs  I  said, 

"Good  night  to  you;  I  hope  you  will  have  a 
good  night's  sleep  and  that  things  will  straighten 
out  in  Wall  Street  tomorrow. ' '    He  smiled,  and  said, 

"Ed,  I  never  stayed  awake  a  night  in  my  life 
about  business  and  I'm  not  going  to  begin  now." 

Next  morning  at  the  breakfast  table  he  was  as 
fresh  and  cheery  as  usual,  though  he  knew  better 
than  anyone  that  the  very  foundations  of  great 
business  concerns  and  of  Wall  Street  itself  would 
totter  on  that  day,  and  that  ruin  might  come  to 
the  most  powerful. 

He  became  a  trustee  of  the  Sanitarium  at  my 
request  in  1891,  and  remained  on  the  board  until 
his  death  in  1909.  He  always  gave  the  work  while 
on  the  board  his  time,  interest,  advice  and  sup- 

(95) 


port,  and  on  several  instances  induced  his  friends 
to  join  him  in  subscriptions  to  the  Endowment 
Fund.  He  loved  a  joke,  and  always  pretended 
to  me  that  his  responsibilities  as  a  trustee  of  the 
Sanitarium  were  a  great  burden — greater  than 
any  others  he  had — and  that  he  must  sacrifice 
all  other  business  to  be  present  at  these  meetings, 
which  he  nevertheless  always  found  time  to  attend 
no  matter  how  pressing  his  engagements.  He 
would  always  make  it  a  great  point  to  come  from 
New  York  to  Paul  Smith's  to  attend  the  summer 
meetings  which  were  always  held  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks,  and  after  the  meeting  he  usually  remained 
and  visited  me  for  a  few  days.  On  the  one  occasion 
when  he  was  in  Japan  during  the  summer  he  sent 
me  a  cable  on  the  day  of  the  meeting  which  was 
characteristic  of  him: 

"Sorry  I  cannot  come  to  meeting.  It  is  a  long 
way  around  to  you,  but  not  so  far  in  a  straight 
line  through  the  earth.    Best  wishes." 

Mr.  Harriman  was  obliged  to  return  to  his 
business  in  New  York  toward  the  end  of  August, 
and  James  Livingston  volunteered  to  come  up 
and  take  his  place  in  looking  after  me,  though 
by  that  time  I  was  feeling  almost  well  again. 
Jim  Livingston  remained  with  me  three  weeks, 
and  about  the  end  of  September  I  decided  I  was 
so  well  that  I  would  go  down  and  join  my  wife 
and  babies  at  the  Prospect  House,  Catskill, 
where  she  and  her  father  had  gone  for  a  little 

(96) 


change.  I  was  sunburned,  had  gained  fifteen 
pounds  in  weight,  was  apparently  in  my  usual 
health,  and  was  so  anxious  to  see  my  little  family 
again  that  I  could  hardly  wait  for  the  day  set 
for  my  departure  for  Catskill.  It  was  a  happy 
reunion  at  the  Catskill  hotel,  where  I  became 
better  acquainted  with  little  Chatte  and  Ned  and 
the  faithful  nurse,  Annie  Gaffney. 

After  we  all  got  back  to  town  again  I  tried  hard 
to  get  my  physicians  and  friends  to  let  me  stay 
at  home,  but  a  return  of  the  fever  soon  showed  me 
the  folly  of  such  a  course.  The  doctors  decided 
for  some  reason  to  send  me  to  St.  Paul,  Minnesota, 
which  was  considered  by  some  an  excellent  place 
for  pulmonary  invalids  in  the  winter  on  account 
of  its  large  proportion  of  sunny  days,  and  we 
started  at  once.  The  winter  at  St.  Paul  was  not 
a  success,  and  as  I  was  allowed  to  drive  and  walk 
and  go  duck  hunting  when  I  felt  equal  to  it,  I 
had  some  fever  most  of  the  time.  By  spring  I 
was  nearly  as  sick  as  the  year  before  and  the 
Adirondacks  seemed  my  only  hope;  so  we  left 
St.  Paul  in  May,  and  early  in  June,  accompanied 
by  my  wife,  the  two  children  and  two  nurses,  I 
arrived  at  Paul  Smith's  to  my  intense  joy,  for  I 
always  loved  the  place. 

Of  late  years  on  several  occasions  I  have  been 
taken  to  Paul  Smith's  from  Saranac  Lake  in  the 
spring  so  ill  that  my  life  was  despaired  of;  and 
yet  little  by  little,  while  lying  out  under  the  great 
trees,  looking  out  on  the  lake  all  day,  my  fever 

(97) 


has  stopped  and  my  strength  slowly  begun  to 
return.  Last  spring — 19 14 — at  Saranac  Lake 
I  was  so  ill  and  weak  that  I  had  ceased,  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life,  even  to  care  to  live  any  longer. 
I  arrived  at  Paul  Smith's  at  the  end  of  June  on 
a  mattress,  which  had  been  placed  in  the  auto- 
mobile of  a  good  friend,  and  the  same  feeling  of 
hope  and  courage  came  back  when  I  was  carried 
up  to  my  airy  porch  in  the  little  cottage,  with  the 
stillness  of  the  great  forest  all  about  me,  the  lake 
shimmering  in  the  sunlight,  and  a  host  of  recollec- 
tions of  many  happy  days  and  many  good  friends 
crowding  in  on  me  from  every  side.  Again,  imper- 
ceptibly the  fever  began  to  fall,  and  strength — 
and  with  it  the  desire  to  live — to  return.  During 
the  previous  two  months  in  the  spring  at  Saranac 
Lake  I  did  not  want  to  live  from  day  to  day;  much 
less  did  I  ever  dream  I  should  be  willing  to  live 
over  again  in  retrospect  the  long  years  of  the  past 
and  write  about  them.  The  magic  spell  of  the 
old  place,  however,  seemed  again  able  to  restore 
the  failing  spark  of  existence,  and  must  be  respon- 
sible for  whatever  may  result,  even  my  writing 
my  autobiography. 

Many  of  the  sportsmen  at  Paul  Smith's  criticised 
me  for  bringing  such  young  children  to  so  rough  and 
remote  a  place,  but  the  children  seemed  to  thrive  all 
summer.  It  was  different  with  me,  and  this  time 
I  did  not  improve  as  I  did  the  first  summer.  The  fall 
found  me  still  having  fever  and  able  to  do  very  little. 

(98) 


It  was  then  that  I  first  met  Dr.  Alfred  Loomis, 
who  was  in  camp  with  a  hunting  party  at  Bay 
Pond.  When  he  returned  to  the  hotel  on  his  way 
to  New  York  I  asked  him  to  examine  me,  and  his 
report  was  most  discouraging.  I  told  him  I  was 
tired  of  going  from  place  to  place;  that  I  loved 
the  Adirondacks;  that  I  would  like  to  stay  all 
winter  and  take  my  chance.  He  seemed  to  think 
there  was  no  reason  why  I  should  not  try  it,  and 
told  me  he  had  advised  a  Mr.  Edgar,  who  was  a 
patient  of  his  and  wanted  to  stay  through  the 
winter,  to  remain  also.  I  heard  indirectly  after- 
wards that  he  felt  little  or  no  hope  of  my  recovery 
and  thought  I  might  as  well  spend  the  remaining 
days  of  my  life  where  I  was  happiest. 

I  lived,  however,  to  induce  him  to  become  a 
trustee  of,  and  to  examine  patients  in  New  York 
for,  the  Adirondack  Cottage  Sanitarium,  when  I 
opened  that  institution  in  1884  at  Saranac  Lake. 
He  always  took  a  keen  interest  in  my  experiment, 
and  gave  the  Sanitarium  the  support  and  approval 
of  his  great  name  up  to  the  date  of  his  death  in 

1895. 

The  good  result  of  the  winter's  stay  in  my  case, 
as  well  as  in  that  of  Mr.  Edgar  who  stayed  at 
Saranac  Lake  during  the  same  winter  I  spent  at 
Paul  Smith's,  drew  Dr.  Loomis's  attention  to  the 
value  of  the  Adirondack  climate  for  tuberculous 
patients  and  induced  him  to  advise  other  such 
patients  to  remain  through  the  winter.  In  1876 
he  published  a  paper  in  The  Medical  Record,  draw- 

(99) 


ing  attention  for  the  first  time  to  the  climatic  value 
of  this  region  for  pulmonary  invalids. 

When  with  some  hesitancy  I  proposed  to  my 
wife  my  plan  of  our  remaining  in  the  Adirondacks 
all  winter  she  acquiesced  at  once,  though  in  those 
days  wintering  in  the  Adirondacks  was  much  like 
wintering  in  the  Klondike  now.  I  never  realized 
until  later  how  selfish  my  decision  to  remain  in 
such  a  remote  place  was,  and  how  hard  it  must 
have  been  for  her.  If  this  plan  were  carried  out, 
not  only  would  she  be  cut  off  from  all  intercourse 
with  friends,  but  in  my  precarious  state  of  health 
she  knew  if  I  were  taken  very  ill  no  help  could  be 
secured,  and  she  must  carry  the  anxiety  alone. 
The  nearest  doctor  was  at  Plattsburg,  a  sixty- 
mile  drive,  often  through  unbroken  roads.  My 
wife,  however,  has  never  been  the  nervous,  over- 
anxious type,  but  always  self-contained,  meeting 
quietly  and  bravely  all  the  ills  and  sorrows  that 
have  come  to  us  in  life.  We  were  young  and  happy 
together  with  our  children,  and  were  not  inclined 
to  borrow  trouble;  thus  it  came  about,  thanks 
to  her  quiet  courage,  that  we  decided  to  face  the 
terrors  of  an  Adirondack  winter,  sixty  miles  from 
a  doctor  or  a  railroad  and  entirely  cut  off  from 
all  connection  with  the  outside  world.  We  could, 
however,  send  for  the  mail,  which  was  carried  by 
a  stage  sleigh  three  times  a  week  to  Bloomingdale, 
a  ten-mile  drive  from  Paul  Smith's. 

The  first  difficulty  we  met  in  carrying  out  our 
plan  was  a  positive  refusal  from  Paul  Smith  and 

(100) 


his  wife  to  take  us  for  the  winter.  The  Httle  hos- 
telry usually  closed  at  the  end  of  October,  when  the 
last  hunter  took  his  departure.  Paul  and  his 
wife,  their  three  little  boys,  Henry,  Phelps  and 
Paulie,  a  man  to  look  after  the  bam  and  a  woman 
to  help  Mrs.  Smith  with  the  cooking  and  house- 
keeping, were  the  only  human  beings  who  remained 
through  the  winter.  No  *  'outsider' '  had  ever  passed 
a  winter  at  St.  Regis  Lake  before. 

The  truth,  I  imagine,  was  that  Mrs.  Smith  feared 
I  never  would  live  through  the  winter,  and  I  know 
they  both  thought  it  a  most  rash  and  foolish  thing 
for  such  a  sick  man  to  do.  In  those  days  the  belief 
that  cold  and  storm  were  the  two  things  to  be 
avoided  by  the  consumptive,  and  that  he  should  in 
winter  seek  a  warm  and  sunny  climate,  was  so  gen- 
eral and  deep-rooted  that  my  staying  in  so  rough 
a  climate  seemed  to  them  little  short  of  suicide. 

First  I  got  Paul  to  say  that  he  was  willing  to 
keep  us  if  Mrs.  Smith  would  consent;  and  then 
I  got  my  wife,  whom  Mrs.  Smith  was  very  fond  of, 
to  do  her  best  to  win  her  over,  and  finally  she  gave 
a  reluctant  consent. 

Mrs.  Smith  was  a  wonderfully  fine  character, 
a  very  hard  worker,  capable,  just,  and  with  fine 
ideals  which  she  certainly  lived  up  to.  Before  the 
winter  was  over  we  both  had  learned  to  respect 
and  love  her,  and  she  did  all  she  could  to  help  us 
and  make  us  comfortable.  We  found  Paul  Smith 
an  excellent  companion,  always  taking  everybody 
and  everything  in  life  as  a  joke. 

(101) 


VIII 

ABOUT  this  time  I  received  a  letter  from  my 
l\.dear  mother,  who  for  many  years  had  lived 
in  her  little  cottage  home  in  Fontainebleau,  saying 
she  felt  most  anxious  about  me  and  would  take 
the  next  steamer  and  come  and  spend  a  month 
or  six  weeks  with  me,  wherever  I  might  happen  to 
be.  Such  a  long  journey  in  the  beginning  of  winter 
was  at  that  time  a  great  undertaking  for  a  woman 
alone,  but  Mother  was  a  brave  woman.  The  ties 
of  affection  in  spite  of  separation  had  ever  bound 
us  to  each  other  very  closely,  and  I  looked  forward 
to  seeing  her  again  with  the  keenest  anticipation. 
My  wife  was  to  go  down  with  the  children  at  the 
beginning  of  November  and  visit  her  father  at 
Little  Neck,  and  my  mother  was  to  come  up  and 
spend  six  weeks  with  me  while  they  were  all  away. 
This  plan  we  carried  out;  and  what  a  pleasure 
it  was  when,  after  what  seemed  to  me  an  inter- 
minably long  wait,  my  dear,  brave,  little  mother 
drove  up  with  Paul  Smith  and  I  helped  her  out 
at  the  old  horse  block! 

She  had  lived  in  France  so  long  and  travelled 
and  seen  so  much  that  she  was  a  perfect  type  of  a 
refined  French  lady,  and  a  most  agreeable  com- 

(103) 


panion.  In  a  few  days  she  had  completely  won 
Paul  and  his  wife  over,  so  that  they  came  into 
my  room  every  evening  to  listen  to  her,  and  she 
would  entertain  them  with  stories  of  her  experi- 
ences and  her  travels  in  foreign  lands.  They 
formed  the  habit  of  coming  every  evening  after 
supper,  and  we  would  play  whist  until  bedtime. 
These  whist  parties  were  continued  throughout 
the  entire  winter,  after  my  mother  left  and  my 
wife  returned,  and  I  still  have  most  joyous  recol- 
lections of  those  happy  evenings  when,  by  a  big 
wood  fire  in  the  cozy  little  room,  the  great  snow- 
covered  wilderness  extending  for  miles  around  us 
and  the  mercury  many  degrees  below  zero,  we 
would  play  cards  and  listen  to  Paul's  yarns.  Paul 
was  a  keen  whist  player,  but  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  cheat  a  little  if  he  thought  he  could  do  it  safely. 
I  found  this  out  for  the  first  time  on  one  occasion 
when  we  had  played  whist  all  the  evening,  and  it 
suddenly  occurred  to  me  as  I  was  going  to  bed  that 
I  had  not  dealt  once  that  evening. 

My  mother  was  delighted  with  the  wild  beauty 
of  the  snow-covered  woods  and  mountains,  and  as 
she  had  a  good  deal  of  talent  and  had  painted  all 
her  life  she  at  once  got  out  her  paint  tubes  and 
palette.  The  first  thing  she  painted  was  the  old 
hostelry  as  it  was  then,  with  the  gigantic  pines  on 
all  sides  of  it  and  the  frozen  lake  in  front  of  it. 
Mrs.  Smith  took  such  a  fancy  to  the  picture  that 
Mother  gave  it  to  her,  and  it  still  hangs  in  the 
parlor  at  Paul  Smith's. 

(104) 


Of  course  I  thought  I  should  Hke  to  paint  also, 
and  Mother,  after  the  manner  of  mothers  who 
readily  see  an  embryo  genius  in  their  sons,  gladly 
began  to  teach  me,  so  that  every  day  we  had 
painting  lessons  together.  She  kept  a  hideous 
white  hare  which  was  my  first  production,  and  I 
still  have  an  absurd  painting  of  St.  Regis  Mountain 
at  sunset  which  I  executed  at  that  time,  and  which 
I  prize  for  its  association  and  for  its  very  ugliness. 

We  had  very  many  happy  days  together.  Mother 
and  I,  in  our  wild  and  remote  environment,  and 
it  is  well  we  had.  Their  recollections  warmed 
my  heart  for  many  years  afterwards,  for  after  she 
left  Paul  Smith's  and  returned  to  Fontainebleau 
I  never  saw  her  again.  In  spite  of  an  enforced 
and  unbroken  separation  of  nearly  a  quarter  of  a 
century  which  followed,  however,  the  ties  of 
affection  never  loosened  between  us,  and  I  wrote 
her  a  long  letter,  describing  our  interests,  our 
sorrows  and  our  joys  every  Sunday  night,  with 
only  one  or  two  exceptions,  through  all  those 
long  years,  until  she  passed  away  in  1900  in  her 
little  cottage  at  Fontainebleau. 

My  love  for  hunting  had  free  play  from  that 
winter  on,  as  the  Adirondacks  then  were  a  real 
hunter's  paradise.  I  tried  all  the  hounds  in  the 
neighborhood  and  bought  the  best  one  of  them, 
a  beautiful,  long-eared  black  and  tan  with  a  voice 
like  a  fog-horn;  and  every  morning  I  would  walk 
right  out  in  the  woods  about  the  house,  start  a 
big  white  hare  with  him  almost  at  the  very  door 

(105) 


of  the  hotel,  and  stand  about,  changing  my  posi- 
tion a  Httle  from  time  to  time,  until  he  drove  the 
game  in  sight. 

It  is  a  good  long  stretch  of  time  from  those 
days  in  the  winter  of  1875,  when  I  stood  every 
day  almost  in  sight  of  the  hotel  and  listened 
to  the  music  of  my  hound  as  he  chased  the  big 
white  hares  over  the  new  snow,  to  November, 
1 9 13,  when  I  killed  my  last  deer  at  Little  Rapids 
from  a  chair  in  which  I  had  been  carried  to  my 
runway.  I  had  hunted  whenever  I  could  manage 
to  do  so  during  those  forty  years.  I  never  lost 
my  keen  interest  in  hunting,  and  it  has  remained 
an  ever-enduring  pleasure  and  relaxation  of  which 
I  did  not  allow  my  physical  infirmities  to  deprive 
me.  As  an  instance  of  this,  when  I  killed  my  last 
deer,  in  19 13, 1  had  been  brought  so  low  by  months 
of  continuous  fever  that  an  operation  which 
collapsed  one  of  my  lungs  was  done,  and  although 
it  stopped  the  fever  at  once,  I  was  so  short  of 
breath,  as  I  could  use  but  one  lung,  that  I  could 
not  walk  or  move  about  to  any  extent.  When  the 
fall  came,  however,  and  I  knew  my  old  friend 
Fitz  Hallock  was  waiting  for  our  usual  fall  hunt 
together  at  Little  Rapids,  I  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  going. 

The  guides  tied  poles  to  an  old  rocking  chair 
and  carried  me  to  the  different  watch-grounds 
by  this  comfortable  but  unsportsman-like  method 
of  progression.  Fitz  had  told  me  that  morning 
that  he  had  tracked  a  big  buck  that  had  crossed 

(106) 


a  lumber  road  and  gone  into  the  swamp,  and 
prophesied  that  at  sundown  the  buck  would 
cross  the  lumber  road  again  at  the  same  place 
while  starting  out  for  a  night  forage.  The  guides 
carried  me  to  the  lumber  road  and  I  sat  for  two 
hours  in  that  rocking  chair  just  where  Fitz  placed 
me,  and  he  behind  me.  As  usual  neither  of  us 
said  a  word,  and  I  enjoyed  to  the  full  the  melodious 
stillness  of  the  great  forest,  while  the  sun  began 
to  slant  and  then  disappeared  behind  the  tree 
tops.  It  was  beginning  to  get  dark  and  I  had 
given  up  all  hope  of  a  shot  that  day,  when  right 
in  the  middle  of  the  lumber  road  a  ghost-like 
looking  deer  suddenly  appeared  in  the  gathering 
twilight,  as  if  by  magic,  just  where  Fitz  had  told 
me  to  watch.  The  old  thrill  went  through  my 
nerves.  I  raised  my  rifle  slowly,  put  a  bullet 
through  the  point  of  the  buck's  shoulder,  and 
he  dropped  right  in  his  tracks.  Fitz,  beaming 
with  pleasure,  said,  "Well,  Doctor,  you  must 
love  to  hunt,  and  you  haven't  forgotten  how  to 
do  it  yet!" 

I  hunted  hares  by  myself  that  first  winter  at 
Paul  Smith's,  and  when  I  varied  that  sport  by 
fox  hunting  I  usually  sent  for  Ben  Monte.  He 
would  appear  with  three  lean  and  yelping  hounds 
and  we  would  have  a  fox  hunt  together.  I  found, 
however,  I  could  not  walk  enough  to  stand  much 
chance  for  a  shot  without  feeling  sick  and  feverish 
the  next  day,  and  this  was  the  first  intimation 
I  had  as  to  the  value  of  the  rest  cure,  which  in 

(107) 


after  years  I  applied  so  thoroughly  and  rigidly 
to  my  patients.  I  walked  very  little  after  this, 
and  my  faith  in  the  value  of  the  rest  cure  became 
more  and  more  fully  established. 

I  had  brought  with  me  to  Paul  Smith's  one  of 
the  little  trotting  mares  I  had  bought  from  Lou 
Livingston,  and  Paul  had  a  trotter  of  his  own,  so 
we  had  a  track  cleared  of  snow  on  the  lake  and 
we  trotted  many  races  without  any  audience  but 
the  tall  pines  on  the  shore.  We  were  entirely  cut 
off  from  the  world,  except  that  one  telegraph 
wire  from  Plattsburg  reached  over  the  sixty 
miles  of  wilderness  to  us;  but  in  the  fall,  after 
the  summer  operator  had  gone,  there  was  no  one 
to  use  this  wire.  I  decided,  therefore,  that  I  would 
learn  the  Morse  alphabet,  and  wrote  the  operator 
at  Plattsburg  soliciting  his  interest  and  help. 
He  had  little  to  do  in  winter  evenings,  and  con- 
sented to  practise  with  me  for  half  an  hour  after 
the  business  of  the  day  was  over.  I  soon  grew 
moderately  proficient,  and  my  evening  talk  with 
Plattsburg  brought  us  all  the  outside  news  of 
any  interest. 

Coasting,  snow-balling,  reading,  painting,  tele- 
graphing, playing  cards,  hunting,  fishing  through 
the  ice  for  trout  and  driving  the  little  mare,  in 
all  of  which  Mother  joined,  made  the  days  fly, 
though  we  never  saw  a  face  from  the  outside 
world  until  Christmas,  when  my  friend  Lou 
Livingston  turned  up  for  a  couple  of  days  to  take 
a  look  at  me  and  have  a  little  hunt.     When  he 

(108) 


left  us  he  went  off  on  a  snowshoe  trip  somewhere 
with  the  guides,  and  it  was  many  years  before  I 
saw  him  again,  and  then  only  for  a  few  minutes 
in  New  York. 

Finally,  about  the  middle  of  January,  the  day 
fixed  for  Mother's  departure  came.  I  was  to  drive 
her  in  my  cutter  with  the  little  mare  to  Malone, 
a  small  station  on  the  Ogdensburg  Road,  a  good 
forty  miles  away  and  we  were  to  wait  there  until 
my  wife  and  family  arrived  the  next  afternoon. 
Paul  was  then  to  come  for  us  with  two  sleighs, 
and  the  whole  party,  after  Mother's  departure, 
was  to  return  to  St.  Regis.  I  have  often  wondered 
why  Paul  was  not  afraid  to  start  Mother  and  me 
off  in  a  cutter  by  ourselves  on  a  forty-mile  drive 
through  such  a  wilderness,  for  the  roads  were 
almost  unbroken  and  for  six  or  seven  miles  in 
places  not  a  habitation — ^not  even  a  wood-chopper's 
cabin — ^was  to  be  encountered.  Had  I  got  in  a 
drift,  upset  or  broken  the  cutter  or  harness, 
neither  of  us  would  ever  have  been  able  to  reach 
shelter!  But  I  was  young  and  never  borrowed 
trouble  in  those  days;  and  so  we  started. 

The  drive  through  the  many  long  miles  of  snow- 
covered  woods,  in  a  country  dotted  with  lakes  and 
mountains,  wild  in  their  loneliness,  impressed  my 
mother  deeply,  and  she  often  referred  to  it  in  her 
letters  in  after  years. 

No  accident  happened,  and  we  reached  Malone 
safely  about  dark.  The  next  day  my  little  family 
arrived  and  we  had  a  very  happy  reunion,   as 

(109) 


Mother  had  never  seen  the  children  before.  Paul 
and  the  teams  turned  up  that  evening  and  Mother 
took  the  train  that  night.  This  was  the  last  time 
I  ever  saw  her,  but  three  weeks  later  I  had  a 
letter  from  her,  written  in  Fontainebleau,  saying 
she  had  reached  home  safely. 


(110) 


IX 

THE  weather  had  been  threatening  and  the  wind 
rising.  That  night  it  stormed  and  snowed  all 
night,  a  veritable  blizzard;  and  next  morning  the 
snow  looked  very  deep  in  the  streets  of  Malone. 
On  account  of  the  snow  we  decided  not  to  start 
back  until  afternoon  and  then  to  go  only  to  Duane, 
a  comfortable,  farm-like  hotel  fourteen  miles  from 
Malone,  and  spend  the  night  there.  Paul  drove 
the  two  black  horses  and  carried  in  his  sleigh  the 
children,  the  faithful  Annie  Gaffney,  who  had 
cared  for  little  Chatte  since  she  was  bom,  and 
another  nurse  who  never  went  by  any  other  name 
than  Mary  and  who  looked  after  little  Ned,  not 
yet  two  years  old.  Brink,  the  teamster,  drove 
two  big  horses  to  a  pair  of  lumber  sleds  on  which 
the  trunks  were  placed,  and  the  little  Livingston 
mare  drew  me  and  my  wife  in  the  cutter. 

We  were  in  high  spirits  and  made  a  brave  start, 
but  little  did  we  know  what  was  before  us.  As 
we  drew  clear  of  the  houses  and  began  to  climb 
the  hills  I  noticed  the  wind  was  rising  and  that 
it  was  getting  colder.  Once  or  twice  Paul's  team, 
which  led  the  party,  seemed  to  get  into  deep  snow, 

and  we  had  to  walk  a  great  share  of  the  way. 

(Ill) 


At  that  season  it  begins  to  grow  dark  about  four 
o'clock  in  the  Adirondacks,  and  I  was  just  wonder- 
ing how  much  farther  we  had  to  go,  when  the 
teams  ahead  stopped  at  the  foot  of  a  long,  steep 
hill.  Paul  and  Brink  got  out  and  trampled  the 
snow  ahead  of  the  horses,  then  tried  to  start  them 
again,  but  it  was  no  use;  they  were  soon  wallow- 
ing up  to  their  shoulders  and  could  go  no  farther. 
The  icy  wind  was  drifting  the  fine  snow  into  our 
eyes.  The  horses  had  been  covered  with  sweat 
and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were  covered  with  ice, 
and  I  had  hard  work  to  keep  my  face  and  ears 
from  freezing.  The  children  began  to  cry,  and 
the  nurses — or  rather  Mary — began  to  wail  and 
call  on  the  Saints  for  help,  when  Paul  strode  up 
to  the  cutter  and  said, 

"Doctor,  the  hill  is  solid  with  snow  all  the  way 
up.  If  we  don't  get  these  children  in  shelter  they'll 
soon  freeze.  Brink  and  I  will  dig  a  place  in  this 
drift,  put  you  all  in,  and  we  will  unharness  the 
horses  and  do  what  we  can  to  get  them  through 
the  drift.  We  can  leave  the  trunks  where  they 
are."  And  then  as  usual  a  twinkle  came  in  his 
eye  and  he  said,  "I  don't  think  anyone  will  steal 
them  trunks  before  morning." 

The  horses  were  blanketed,  shovels  were  pro- 
duced from  the  baggage  sleigh,  and  the  two  men 
soon  had  dug  a  large  hole  in  the  side  of  the  drift 
away  from  the  wind.  Robes  were  put  in  this 
improvised  cave,  and  we  all  were  glad  to  take 
shelter  there  from  the  bitter  wind  that  was  blow- 

(112) 


ing.  The  children  stopped  crying,  and  we  were 
quite  comfortable  while  inside  the  big  drift. 
Meanwhile  Paul  and  Brink  unharnessed  the  horses 
and,  each  man  leading  a  horse,  they  struggled 
to  the  top  of  the  hill  until  the  four  horses  had 
been  taken  through  the  drift.  Then  they  managed 
to  drag  Paul's  sleigh,  which  was  a  light  one,  to 
the  top,  taking  advantage  of  the  track  they  and 
the  horses  had  broken.  Returning  to  the  drift 
where  we  were,  they  each  carried  a  child  in  their 
arms  and  the  nurses  followed  in  their  footsteps 
as  best  they  could.  As  I  saw  the  track  was  pretty 
well  broken  by  these  maneuvers  my  wife  and  I 
got  in  the  cutter,  and  though  the  little  mare 
floundered  and  stopped  several  times  we  managed 
to  get  to  the  top  of  the  hill  in  safety.  By  that 
time  it  was  dark  and  snowing  fast.  The  horses 
were  harnessed  to  Paul's  sleigh,  the  crying  chil- 
dren and  frozen  nurses  were  put  in  and  wrapped 
up  as  well  as  possible.  Brink  rode  one  of  his 
horses  and  led  the  other,  and  so  we  moved  on. 
Paul  upset  his  sleigh  twice  in  the  drifts,  and  the 
darkness  added  to  our  troubles;  but  to  my  great 
relief  we  soon  saw  a  light  through  the  trees,  and 
before  long  we  were  all  in  front  of  the  hospitable 
Duane  Farm  and  willing  hands  were  carrying 
the  children  into  the  warm  sitting-room  where 
a  big  fire  was  blazing.  The  children's  spirits  as 
well  as  our  own  soon  rose,  and  it  was  a  happy  party 
that  sat  down  at  the  supper  table  half  an  hour 
later.    I  don't  think  any  dwelling  ever  seemed  to 

(113) 


me  as  comfortable  as  that  hospitable  Duane 
Farm  did  that  night. 

We  all  slept  like  tops,  and  the  next  morning 
broke  clear  and  cold  (twenty  degrees  below  zero). 
Paul  thought  it  would  be  foolish  after  our  experi- 
ence with  the  snow  the  day  before  to  start  without 
knowing  something  about  the  condition  of  the 
road.  It  was  therefore  decided  that  we  should 
remain  at  Duane  through  the  day,  and  that  Paul 
and  Brink  should  get  a  fresh  pair  of  horses  from 
the  farm,  go  over  the  road  for  ten  or  twelve  miles 
and  dig  out  any  bad  drifts,  so  as  to  facilitate  our 
progress  the  next  day.  When  they  returned  in 
the  evening  they  reported  the  snow  deep,  but 
they  had  had  to  dig  out  only  one  or  two  drifts; 
and  so  next  morning  we  all  started  again. 

The  distance  to  Paul  Smith's  was  about  twenty- 
eight  miles.  The  first  ten  miles  were  mostly 
through  the  woods  where  the  snow  did  not  drift, 
and  we  made  fair  but  rather  slow  progress.  After 
we  passed  Meacham  Lake  the  road  showed  that 
no  one  had  travelled  it  since  the  storm,  two  days 
before,  and  the  snow  was  very  deep;  but  we  finally 
reached  McCollum's  Farm  seven  miles  from  Paul 
Smith's  by  one  o'clock,  had  dinner,  rested  the 
horses  an  hour,  and  then  started  on.  For  six 
miles  from  McCollum's  the  road  ran  across  recently 
burned  ground,  and  we  began  to  encounter  drift 
after  drift.  It  seemed  as  if  we  had  no  sooner 
struggled  or  dug  the  horses  through  one  than  we 
were  stuck  in  another. 

(114) 


Paul's  sleigh  with  the  nurses  and  children 
upset  constantly  while  in  these  drifts,  and  yells 
from  the  children  would  announce  the  fact. 
I  would  stop  the  mare,  wade  through  the  snow, 
comfort  them,  and  put  them  back  in  the 
nurses'  laps,  there  to  remain  until  another 
upset   occurred. 

Finally  the  progress  became  so  slow  that  I  saw 
Paul  was  getting  anxious.  Brink's  team  was  now 
plodding  along  breaking  the  road,  as  one  of  Paul's 
blacks  had  shown  signs  of  giving  out.  Paul  told 
Brink  to  drive  the  blacks,  and  jumped  up  on  the 
baggage  load  in  an  attempt  to  carry  the  big  team 
through  if  possible.  We  were  then  nearing  Bar- 
num  Pond  and  within  three  miles  of  Paul  Smith's 
Hotel,  but  it  was  snowing  hard  and  growing 
dark. 

I  can  see  Paul's  huge  figure,  clad  in  a  big  buffalo 
coat  with  a  red  woolen  sash  tied  around  his  waist, 
standing  on  top  of  the  trunks  and  urging  the 
horses  on;  but  as  they  drove  down  on  Bamum 
Pond  the  load  stopped,  and  I  got  out  of  the  sleigh 
to  find  out  what  was  the  matter.  The  big  horses 
had  both  simply  given  out  and  were  lying  on  their 
sides,  breathing  hard.  One  of  Paul's  blacks  was 
lying  down  also.  Paul  got  the  whip,  loosened 
the  big  horses'  traces  and  neck  yokes  and  beat 
them  several  resounding  whacks,  but  they  took 
no  notice:  they  had  done  all  they  could.  I 
confess  I  was  anxious  as  to  what  was  going  to 
happen  to  us  now  when  Paul,  turning  to  me,  said, 

(115) 


"Doctor,  don't  you  know  Napoleon  said  'The 
dark  regions  of  Russia  is  only  fit  for  Russians  to 
inhabit'?" 

Then  he  laughed  and  lit  the  stump  of  an  old 
cigar.  His  cheerfulness  helped  me  wonderfully. 
He  told  me  the  horses  would  lie  there  for  awhile 
and  when  rested  would  get  on  their  feet  again, 
but  that  none  of  them  would  be  good  for  another 
drift,  and  we  were  still  two  miles  from  home. 

Half  a  mile  from  Bamum  Pond  a  guide  named 
Lant  Wilcox  lived,  and  he  had  a  team  of  horses, 
so  Paul  left  us  all  on  Barnum  Pond  and  started 
to  get  the  new  horses.  It  was  a  long  wait,  but 
the  children  slept  in  the  nurses'  arms,  and  we  all 
kept  as  warm  as  we  could  until,  to  our  relief,  a 
lantern  appeared  through  the  woods.  Paul  and 
Lant  Wilcox  had  harnessed  the  new  team  to  the 
front  bobs  of  a  lumber  sleigh ;  the  nurses  and  chil- 
dren were  placed  in  this  sleigh,  which  Paul  drove 
himself.  I  followed  with  the  little  mare;  behind 
us  straggled  at  long  intervals  as  best  they  could 
the  poor,  worn-out  horses,  whose  instinct  taught 
them  they  were  not  far  from  shelter  and  food ;  and 
thus  we  reached  Paul  Smith's  at  ten  p.m.,  three 
days  after  we  started  from  M  alone. 

My  little  mare  was  the  only  one  of  the  horses 
that  drew  her  load  from  start  to  finish.  We 
were  all  thoroughly  worn  out,  chilled  and  hungry; 
but  oh,  so  thankful  to  see  Mrs.  Smith  and  the 
hospitable  old  place  once  more! 

Next   morning    I   drove   down   with   Brink   to 

(116) 


Barnum  Pond  to  get  the  trunks,  and  we  found 
the  loaded  sleigh  where  we  had  left  it  in  the  dark 
the  night  before,  within  twenty  feet  of  a  big  air 
hole. 

Many  times  in  late  years  I  have  travelled  in 
an  hour  on  the  New  York  Central  from  Malone 
to  Paul  Smith's,  and  as  I  looked  out  of  the  com- 
fortably heated  Pullman  over  the  same  snow- 
covered  wilderness  I  have  thought,  though  not 
without  pleasure,  of  how  different  the  journey  was 
when  I  brought  my  little  family  to  Paul  Smith's 
in  1875! 

The  snow  in  February  became  deeper  and 
deeper,  and  by  the  end  of  the  month  was  five 
feet  deep  in  the  woods.  The  man  who  took  care 
of  the  animals  had  to  put  on  snowshoes  to  go  to 
the  barn,  and  we  could  drive  to  Bloomingdale  no 
longer,  but  sent  a  guide  on  snowshoes  after  the 
mail  once  or  twice  a  week. 

Mrs.  Smith  made  us  all  very  comfortable  in  our 
quarters,  and  as  she  was  a  wonderful  cook  the 
meals  she  gave  us  were  excellent.  We  always 
had  venison,  trout  and  partridges  which  the  guides 
were  only  too  glad  to  dispose  of,  and  as  long  as 
the  roads  were  available  Paul's  team  would 
bring  in  a  load  of  provisions  once  in  ten  days — 
beef,  mutton,  eggs,  chickens,  groceries,  etc. 

The  children  would  often  cry  with  cold  hands 
and  feet  while  playing  on  the  floor,  but  they  were 
perfectly  well  all  winter  and  had  none  of  the 
troublesome  colds  which  they  constantly  suffered 

(117) 


from  in  the  steam-heated  apartments  in  St.  Paul 
the  winter  before.  I  kept  well  and  rarely  had 
any  fever,  and  on  the  whole  I  think  my  wife  and 
I  had  a  very  happy  winter  in  spite  of  our  rough 
and  remote  surroundings. 

We  began  to  long  for  the  spring,  however,  and 
the  advent  of  a  face  from  the  outside  world ;  and 
when  in  the  early  part  of  May  I  heard  over  my 
wire  that  a  fishing  party  was  coming  in  on  a 
stage- wagon,  we  were  full  of  excitement  and  antici- 
pation. The  party  turned  out  to  be  Edmund  and 
William  Hall  Penfold  and  their  sister.  I  soon 
became  acquainted  with  them,  and  my  wife  with 
Miss  Penfold.  They  were  astonished  to  hear 
we  had  wintered  at  Paul  Smith's.  We  all  seemed 
most  congenial,  and  they  have  told  me  many 
times  since  that  I  talked  with  great  fluency  and 
seemed  eager  to  know  any  news,  which  is  not  to 
be  wondered  at.  This  was  the  beginning  of  a 
life-long  friendship  between  our  two  families; 
the  kind  of  friendship  that  grows  deeper  and 
stronger  and  closer  with  long  years,  and  which 
nothing  ever  can  shake.  They  came  to  the 
Adirondacks  every  summer  and  sometimes  in 
winter,  and  we  visited  them  in  their  beautiful 
home  in  New  York  during  the  winter  months. 

William  Hall  Penfold  was  one  of  the  first 
trustees  of  the  Sanitarium,  and  served  on  its 
Board  until  his  death  in  191 2.  He  was  one  of  the 
closest  and  best  of  the  many  good  friends  I  have 
had  in  life.     His  brother  was  elected  a  trustee  of 

(118) 


the  Sanitarium  in  his  place,  and  is  a  member  of 
the  Board  now. 

The  hotel  began  to  fill  up  and  the  regular  summer 
guests  to  arrive,  and  many  of  these  also  became 
life-long  friends  of  ours,  and  helped  me  financially 
through  long  years  when  I  was  trying  to  build  and 
develop  my  Sanitarium. 

Up  to  this  time  I  had  almost  forgotten  I  was  a 
doctor.  I  neither  read  medical  literature  nor 
practised  my  profession,  except  on  the  rare  occa- 
sions when  some  of  the  guides  were  injured  or 
sick  and  could  get  no  other  medical  aid.  I  was  so 
imbued  with  the  idea  that  life  for  me  was  to  be  a 
short  experience  that  I  had  apparently  lost  all 
interest  in  perfecting  myself  in  a  profession  I 
should  never  live  to  practise.  The  summer  guests 
at  the  hotel,  however,  occasionally  needed  a  physi- 
cian, and  I  got  a  supply  of  medicines  and  began 
to  do  a  little  more  work  as  time  passed. 


(119) 


X 

MY  health  did  not  improve  the  second  summer 
and  the  fever  came  back.  When  Dr.  Loomis 
came  in  for  his  hunting  trip  in  the  fall  I  asked 
him  to  examine  me,  and  he  said  I  was  no  worse 
than  the  year  before,  but  had  made  no  material 
progress  toward  recovery.  He  approved  of  my 
remaining  another  winter,  and  he  evidently  was 
surprised  that  I  was  no  worse. 

We  found  we  could  not  remain  at  St.  Regis 
another  winter,  however,  as  Paul  Smith  bought 
the  Fouquet  House  at  Plattsburg  that  fall  and 
he  and  Mrs.  Smith  were  to  leave  St.  Regis  to  a 
caretaker  and  run  the  Plattsburg  house  through 
the  winter.  This  was  a  great  blow  to  us,  and 
I  began  to  look  about  for  some  place  to  spend 
the  winter.  Finally  we  decided  my  wife  should 
go  down  to  her  father's  with  the  children  in  Octo- 
ber, and  I  would  go  into  camp  for  a  fall  hunt; 
then  I  would  look  about,  and  when  I  had  found 
a  place  in  the  Adirondacks  where  we  could  spend 
the  winter,  she  would  join  me  there.  I  had  as 
guide  at  that  time  Douglas  Martin,  Mrs.  Smith's 
brother,  and  Paul  had  offered  to  let  me  take  a 
couple  of  his  horses  wherever  I  went  for  the 
winter;  so  when  I  returned  from  the  hunting  camp, 

(121) 


Douglas  and  I  drove  about  the  country  looking 
for  a  place  where  I  could  bring  my  family. 

We  tried  Bloomingdale,  but  no  suitable  house 
was  to  be  had  there,  so  we  drove  on  to  Saranac 
Lake.  At  that  time  Saranac  Lake  village  con- 
sisted of  a  saw-mill,  a  small  hotel  for  guides  and 
lumbermen,  a  school-house,  and  perhaps  a  dozen 
guides'  houses  scattered  about  over  an  area  of  an 
eighth  of  a  mile.  There  was  one  little  store  kept 
by  Milo  B.  Miller  where  flour,  sugar,  a  few  grocer- 
ies, tobacco  and  patent  medicines  were  sold  and 
where  the  clerk  was  the  telegraph  operator.  The 
two  best  houses  were  owned  by  "Lute"  Evans, 
an  old  guide,  where  Mr.  Edgar,  Dr.  Loomis's 
patient,  boarded;  and  opposite  was  a  fairly 
comfortable  little  clapboarded  house  owned  by 
Reuben  Reynolds,  also  a  guide.  This  was  about 
the  only  house  in  the  place  at  that  time  large 
enough  to  take  in  my  little  family,  and  I  managed 
to  hire  it  for  twenty-five  dollars  a  month,  unfur- 
nished, for  the  winter.  Mrs.  Paul  Smith  had 
promised  to  help  us  out  if  we  needed  some  furni- 
ture, so  I  sent  Douglas  over  to  St.  Regis  with  the 
team  and  he  returned  with  a  generous  load  of 
furniture,  bedding  and  crockery,  which  made  the 
little  cottage  quite  habitable. 

That  afternoon,  after  we  unloaded  the  furniture, 
I  remember  I  went  out  with  "Dug"  rabbit  hunting 
and  killed  a  big  hare  ahead  of  my  hound,  exactly 
where  the  station  of  the  New  York  Central 
Railroad  was  built  in  later  years. 

( 122  ) 


It  was  in  November,  1876,  that  my  little  family 
joined  me  at  Saranac  Lake,  and  we  have  lived 
there  ever  since.  This  was  the  beginning  of  the 
now  famous  health  resort  known  as  Saranac  Lake, 
which  developed  at  first  through  a  few  pulmonary 
invalids  that  Dr.  Loomis  sent  me  from  time  to 
time  to  try  the  effect  of  the  winter  climate,  and 
subsequently  through  my  founding  at  Saranac 
Lake  two  institutions,  the  first  of  their  kind  in 
this  country — the  Adirondack  Cottage  Sanitarium, 
and  the  Saranac  Laboratory  for  the  Study  of 
Tuberculosis.  The  pioneer  work  of  these  two 
institutions  for  the  study  and  treatment  of  tuber- 
culosis was  not  without  influence  in  initiating 
the  great  tuberculosis  crusade  in  the  United 
States,  and  helped  to  focus  the  attention  of  the 
medical  profession  and  the  public  on  Saranac 
Lake  as  a  health  resort. 

We  had  a  quiet  and  uneventful  winter  in  the 
Reynolds  cottage.  I  raised  a  subscription  to 
subsidize  the  two-horse  stage  to  Ausable  Forks, 
which  Fitz  O'Brien  drove  in  those  days,  to  run 
daily  instead  of  three  times  a  week,  and  in  this 
way  we  got  the  mail  regularly,  except  in  the  early 
spring  when  the  roads  were  almost  impassable 
and  the  stage  ran  somewhat  irregularly. 

For  forty  years  my  wife  and  I  have  spent  the 
winters  at  Saranac  Lake  and  (with  only  one  excep- 
tion, when  my  daughter  was  very  ill)  the  sum- 
mers at  Paul  Smith's.  I  began  to  gain  in  weight 
and    strength,    and    practised    medicine    a    little 

(123) 


more  as  the  years  went  by.  In  winter  I  had  a  few 
tuberculosis  cases  Dr.  Loomis  had  sent  me,  and 
in  summer  I  did  a  good  deal  of  work  among  the 
guests  at  Paul  Smith's  and  the  other  hotels  of  the 
region,  as  I  became  better  known  as  a  physician. 
It  was  early  in  May  of  this  year  that  our  third 
baby  was  bom.  Although  we  had  no  nurse, 
and  Mrs.  Smith,  the  cook  and  I  were  the  only 
available  attendants,  my  wife  was  as  calm  as 
ever.  It  had  been  a  very  dry  season  in  the  woods 
and  forest  fires  had  been  of  unusual  severity  and 
very  close  to  the  hotel.  The  baby  was  three  days 
old  when  a  strong  south  wind  one  morning  began 
blowing  the  smoke  and  the  flames  toward  the 
hotel.  By  noon  the  smoke  was  so  thick  that  it 
was  quite  dark  and  nothing  could  be  seen  of  the 
lake.  Paul  and  Mrs.  Smith  were  alarmed,  and 
thought  the  hotel,  which  was  surrounded  on  two 
sides  with  woods,  surely  must  bum,  and  they 
began  moving  their  more  valuable  things  to  the 
edge  of  the  lake.  I  certainly  was  anxious  enough 
that  day.  I  got  Fred  Martin  to  put  my  big  boat 
on  the  edge  of  the  lake,  and  made  him  promise 
that  he  would  stay  there  and  keep  little  Chatte 
and  Ned  with  him  as  long  as  there  was  any  danger. 
My  wife  was  as  calm  and  self-contained  as  usual. 
I  told  her  the  children  were  safe;  that  I  didn't 
want  to  disturb  her  unless  it  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary, but  that  if  the  hotel  caught  fire  anywhere, 
two  of  the  guides  whom  I  could  trust  had  promised 
to  come  straight  to  our  room  and   carry  her  to 

(124) 


the  boat.  Then  I  sat  by  her  side  and  we  tried 
to  make  talk  as  best  we  could.  From  where  I 
sat  I  could  see  the  sparks  falling  on  the  barn  roof, 
and  the  guides  on  the  roof  throwing  water  on  it, 
and  I  feared  the  house  must  soon  go.  Just  about 
that  time  the  wind  began  to  veer  into  the  west, 
the  sparks  ceased  to  fall,  the  smoke  began  to  blow 
away,  and  Paul  came  in  and  said  he  didn't  think 
the  old  place  would  burn  this  time;  and  he  was 
right,  for  although  it  has  been  on  fire  from  within 
several  times  in  the  past  thirty-nine  years,  the 
same  wing  where  my  wife  and  little  baby  lay 
through  that  awful  afternoon  is  standing  just  as 
it  did  then. 

I  kept  pretty  well  that  summer,  and  in  the  fall 
when  we  moved  over  to  Saranac  Lake  we  went 
straight  to  Mrs.  Evans's  cottage,  where  we 
boarded  with  her  for  the  next  seven  winters. 
The  cottage  was  very  comfortable,  though  some- 
what primitive  in  its  arrangements.  Of  course 
we  had  no  running  water  in  Saranac  Lake  in 
those  days.  A  big  barrel  was  kept  behind  the 
kitchen  stove,  from  which  with  a  dipper  we  filled 
our  pitchers,  and  from  time  to  time  "Lute" 
Evans  would  walk  down  to  the  river  with  two 
pails  suspended  from  a  neck-yoke  and  replenish 
the  barrel.  I  built  a  large  fire-place  in  the  sitting- 
room,  and  many  long,  happy  winter  evenings  we 
spent  around  that  fire-place  with  the  children. 

Mrs.  Evans  was  an  excellent  housekeeper  and 
cook,   and   became   very    fond   of   the   children. 

(  125  ) 


She  disliked  dogs  intensely,  but  she  was  so  good 
to  us  that  my  hounds  were  always  allowed  in 
the  house,  and  permitted  to  sleep,  after  their 
return  from  a  long  hunt,  in  front  of  the  fire-place 
in  the  parlor.  These  first  Saranac  winters  were 
all  hunting  winters,  and  I  always  kept  two  or 
three  hounds. 

The  next  summer  we  spent  at  Paul  Smith's 
again.  I  was  quite  miserable  at  times  that  sum- 
mer, and  had  fever  a  good  deal  of  the  time,  so 
did  little  hunting  and  fishing. 

During  the  long  winter  at  Paul  Smith's  my  wife 
and  I  greatly  missed  any  opportunity  to  attend 
church  services.  So  strong  was  my  desire  to  supply 
this  need  as  far  as  possible  for  the  guides*  families, 
that  during  the  long  winter  months  I  used  to  go  to 
the  little  school-house  on  the  road  to  Bloomingdale 
and  hold  Sunday  School  for  the  children.  I  don't 
believe  I  was  a  very  competent  teacher,  but  it 
quieted  my  conscience  to  try  to  do  something 
to  carry  the  blessed  message  to  those  children 
who  had  so  little  opportunity  to  hear  it. 

Through  the  summer  months  the  Reverend 
W.  A.  Leonard,  Reverend  Boyd  Vincent,  both 
bishops  now,  and  Dr.  John  Lundy  held  services 
in  the  parlor  of  the  hotel,  during  their  visits  to 
Paul  Smith's,  for  the  guests  and  guides.  The 
possibility  of  building  a  chapel  near  by,  where 
any  clergymen  who  came  to  the  hotel  during  the 
summer  could  officiate,  was  discussed  from  time 

(126) 


'v,^ 


ST.   JOHN'S    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 


to  time,  and  in  the  fall  of  1876  I  started  a  sub- 
scription list  for  a  little  log  chapel.  I  also  wrote 
to  my  old  friend,  Mrs.  Louis  Livingston,  who  I 
knew  loved  the  place,  and  asked  her  to  help. 
She  responded  by  holding  a  fair  in  her  parlors 
in  New  York,  and  sent  me  fourteen  hundred 
dollars  as  the  result  of  her  efforts.  The  rest  of 
the  money  came  from  appeals  to  the  guests. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a  lifetime  of  begging 
money  from  my  friends,  an  occupation  I  have 
carried  on  unceasingly,  and,  thanks  to  the  con- 
stancy of  their  friendship,  rather  successfully  for 
forty  years. 

Paul  Smith  gave  the  land  and  the  logs — and 
what  logs  they  were! — the  finest  of  white  pine, 
of  full  growth.  Mrs.  Rosman  donated  the  chancel 
window;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  A.  A.  Low,  an  end  window 
in  memory  of  an  old  guide;  the  Reverend  T.  C. 
Norton,  the  bishop's  chair;  Mrs.  R.  M.  Townsend, 
the  bell;  the  Reverend  W.  A.  Leonard,  the  reading 
desk;  Miss  Rosman,  the  surplice;  and  the  com- 
munion service  was  given  by  the  Reverend  and 
Mrs.  John  P.  Lundy.  Other  gifts,  such  as  a 
brass  book-rest,  linen,  a  font  and  an  organ,  were 
added  as  years  passed. 

The  little  chapel  was  designed  by  Mr.  Hathorne, 
a  New  York  architect,  who  gave  the  plans.  The 
exterior  was  of  oiled  logs  with  a  shingled  roof, 
almost  square,  with  a  chancel  at  the  north  end. 
The  interior  walls  were  stone-colored  plaster, 
wainscoted   with   black  walnut,   and   the  roof  a 

(127) 


dome,  tinted  in  dark  blue.  The  chancel  window, 
which  was  single,  was  given  by  Mrs.  Rosman  as 
a  memorial  to  her  only  child,  and  is  now  the 
central  one  of  the  three  chancel  windows. 

When  first  built  the  little  chapel  seated  only 
about  forty  people,  and  services  were  held  only 
when  a  clergyman  was  a  guest  at  the  hotel  or 
when  one  could  be  secured;  but  finally  the  Rev- 
erend C.  S.  Knapp,  an  invalid  clergyman,  was  put 
in  charge  for  the  summer.  When  completed  the 
property  was  deeded  to  the  Board  of  Missions 
of  the  Episcopal  Church,  and  was  consecrated 
on  September  13,  1877,  by  the  Right  Reverend 
William  C.  Doane,  D.D.,  who  preached,  as  I 
remember,  from  the  text,  "Lo,  we  heard  it  at 
Ephrata  and  found  it  in  the  wood." 

Soon  the  congregations  outgrew  the  seating 
capacity  of  the  little  chapel,  and  it  was  decided 
to  alter  and  enlarge  it.  I  succeeded,  by  appeals 
to  the  guests  and  my  friends,  in  raising  the  neces- 
sary funds.  The  carrying  out  of  this  rather 
delicate  architectural  problem  was  intrusted  to 
my  cousin,  Mr.  J.  Lawrence  Aspinwall,  who 
gave  his  services  and  who  made  a  striking  suc- 
cess in  the  transformation  of  this  unique  log 
chapel.  All  that  remains  of  the  original  little 
chapel  is  the  nave  at  the  north  end.  Mr.  Aspin- 
wall added  a  transept  on  each  side  and  enlarged 
the  chancel,  so  that  the  chapel  is  now  cruciform 
and  can  seat  one  hundred  and  fifty  worshippers 
comfortably. 

(128) 


St.  John's  in  the  Wilderness  is  known  far  and 
wide  for  the  originality  of  its  construction  and  the 
beauty  and  simplicity  of  its  design.  An  excellent 
effect  is  produced  in  the  appearance  of  the  interior 
by  the  contrast  between  the  simplicity  of  the 
church-like  and  gracefully  arched  white  wood 
beams,  the  unvarnished,  shingled  walls,  and  the 
varied  and  rich  tones  of  some  of  the  fine  stained- 
glass  windows  which  have  been  put  in  by  loving 
friends  as  memorials  of  my  children,  and  of  their 
dear  ones  gone  before. 

I  have  been  warden  of  the  mission  ever  since 
the  original  little  chapel  was  erected  thirty-eight 
years  ago,  and  the  Bishop  has  left  the  adminis- 
tration of  its  affairs  in  my  hands  during  all  these 
years.  Every  Sunday  my  wife  has  herself  cared 
for  the  adornment  of  the  church,  with  flowers 
or  autumn  leaves,  and  prepared  the  altar  for 
service.  Here  many  great  divines  have  preached 
sermons  which  have  opened  glimpses  of  the 
Heavenly  Vision  to  crowded  congregations. 

On  July  7,  1914,  my  son.  Dr.  Francis  B.  Tru- 
deau,  brought  his  bride,  Miss  Helen  Garretson, 
of  Morristown,  New  Jersey,  to  the  altar  of  the 
little  log  church,  where  he  had  worshiped  since 
boyhood. 

On  July  25  of  the  following  year,  1915,  the 
young  married  couple  brought  their  baby  boy, 
Edward  Livingston  Trudeau,  2d,  to  the  font  of 
St.  John's  in  the  Wilderness  for  baptism.  My 
good  friend.  Dr.  Edward  R.  Baldwin,  and  Miss 

(129) 


Josephine  Garretson  stood  as  godfather  and  god- 
mother for  the  smiling  infant,  while,  seated  in 
the  body  of  the  little  rustic  edifice,  the  grandfather 
and  grandmother  pondered  on  the  great  and 
mysterious  meaning  of  existence! 

Three  of  my  children  are  buried  under  the  pines 
near  the  eaves  of  the  little  building,  and  when 
my  wife  and  I  sleep  "the  long  sleep"  it  will  be, 
we  both  hope,  in  this  peaceful  spot,  teeming 
with  tender  memories,  which  has  meant  so  much 
to  us  both  through  the  storm  and  stress  of  life. 

It  was  not  in  the  remodeling  of  St.  John's  alone 
that  my  cousin  Mr.  Aspinwall  came  into  my  life, 
but  ever  since  those  early  days,  through  many, 
many  long  years,  he  has  done  all  that  the  very 
best  friend  could  do  to  carry  my  burdens  for  me. 

When  we  returned  to  Saranac  Lake  that  fall 
several  invalids  who  had  consulted  Dr.  Loomis 
were  there  for  the  winter,  and  the  place  was 
beginning  to  grow. 

Our  baby  boy,  Henry,  had  always  seemed  well, 
but  during  the  winter  he  was  taken  suddenly  ill 
with  convulsions  and  died  two  days  later.  This 
was  the  first  great  sorrow  my  wife  and  I  had  to 
meet  together,  but  not  the  last.  We  laid  the 
little  body  at  rest  under  the  tall  pines  in  the 
churchyard  at  St.  Regis. 

During  the  winter  I  did  more  practice,  not 
only  among  the  visitors,  but  among  the  guides 
also.    I  never  charged  the  guides  or  their  families, 

(130) 


however,  and  owing  to  this  and  a  common  interest 
in  the  hunting,  we  were  always  on  the  best  of 
terms.  They  were  constantly  taking  me  out 
for  hunts  where  they  thought  I  would  have  a 
good  chance.  In  1879  the  Saranac  Lake  men 
"chipped  in"  and  gave  me  a  fine  Waltham  gold 
watch,  which  I  now  have,  and  which  Al  McKen- 
zie  had  written  and  asked  Mr.  Harriman  to 
purchase  for  them.  Al  wrote,  "We  want  to  give 
the  Doctor  a  gold  watch,  as  he  has  only  an  old 
tin  one  now."  On  the  inside  of  the  hunting-case 
cover  is  the  simple  inscription,  "E.  L.  Trudeau, 
from  the  Saranac  boys,  1879." 

When,  in  1883,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  attempt 
to  build  a  sanitarium  at  Saranac  Lake  for  patients 
of  moderate  means,  the  guides  again  "chipped 
in,"  and  having  found  out  from  Fitz  Hallock  the 
piece  of  land  I  wanted,  they  bought  sixteen  acres 
and  presented  me  with  the  deed. 

It  was  during  those  early  years  at  Saranac 
Lake  that  I  met  the  well-known  Adirondack 
guides,  Fitz  Greene  Hallock  and  Albert  McKenzie, 
and  this  was  the  beginning  of  many  happy  days 
spent  in  the  woods  with  them,  and  of  a  life-long 
friendship.  On  the  subject  of  hunting  we  cer- 
tainly were  a  congenial  trio,  and  I  am  sure  they 
enjoyed  those  days  as  much  as  I  did.  I  remember 
the  first  winter  I  was  at  Mrs.  Evans's,  I  had 
hired  Al  McKenzie  for  the  entire  year  and  so 
Fitz  was  free  in  the  winter.  I  told  him  I  would 
recommend  him  to  a  gentleman,  one  of  the  first 

(131) 


patients  Dr.  Loomis  had  advised  to  stay  through 
the  winter,  and  he  received  a  position  with  this 
gentleman  at  once.  Shortly  afterwards  he  came 
to  me  and  said  he  had  decided  not  to  hire  out  this 
winter;  that  this  gentleman,  he  thought,  didn't 
really  love  hunting,  and  that  instead  of  working 
for  him  he  would  just  board  in  the  village  and 
hunt  with  Al  McKenzie  and  me  when  we  went  out. 

Al  McKenzie,  after  a  few  years,  went  West 
and  bought  a  ranch  there,  and  I  have  never  seen 
him  since.  I  was  able,  however,  very  unexpectedly, 
many  years  after  he  left  Saranac  Lake,  to  be  of 
help  to  him  at  a  most  critical  period  of  his  life. 
For  many  years  I  had  heard  nothing  from  him, 
when,  in  1912,  I  received  a  most  pathetic  letter 
from  him,  written  in  a  tremulous  hand.  In  it 
he  told  me  he  had  now  suffered  with  neuralgia  of 
the  face  for  years;  it  had  grown  steadily  worse, 
and  recently  he  had  suffered  the  tortures  of  the 
damned.  He  had  spent  all  his  money  on  doctors: 
everything  had  been  tried,  even  the  injection 
of  alcohol  into  the  nerve  as  it  emerges  from  the 
skull;  and  this  had  paralyzed  his  face  on  one  side 
but  had  not  relieved  the  terrible  pain.  He  feared 
he  would  kill  himself  while  in  a  bad  paroxysm, 
and  was  writing  to  say  good-bye  and  to  tell  me 
how  he  had  thought  of  the  happy  days  we  had 
spent  hunting  together  in  the  Adirondacks. 

I  realized  the  situation  at  once.  Light-hearted, 
joyous  Al  McKenzie,  my  old  friend  and  com- 
panion on  so  many  hunting  trips,  always  cheery, 

(132) 


always  happy,  was  stricken  with  the  most  terribly 
painful  disease  known.  He  evidently  had  the 
real  "tic  douloureux",  a  disease  which  is  due  to 
changes  in  the  root  of  the  nerve  as  it  emerges 
from  a  small  ganglion  (the  Gasserian  ganglion) 
situated  at  the  base  of  the  brain,  and  which  causes 
such  frightful  suffering  that  twenty  per  cent,  of 
its  victims  take  their  own  lives.  The  only  hope  of 
relief  is  a  most  difficult  and  dangerous  operation 
by  which  the  ganglion  is  laid  bare  and  the  root 
of  the  nerve  cut.  So  difficult  is  the  operation 
that  only  the  great  specialists  in  brain  surgery 
care  to  attempt  it,  for  it  requires  great  skill  and 
experience  to  reach  and  destroy  this  little  deposit 
of  brain  substance  without  doing  irreparable  or 
fatal  injury  to  the  surrounding  brain  tissues. 
All  this  I  knew  well,  and  I  knew  that  one  of  the 
few  men  who  could  save  my  old  friend  was  Dr. 
Harvey  Gushing,  who  was  then  doing  brain  sur- 
gery at  the  Johns  Hopkins  Hospital. 

I  wrote  to  Al  by  return  mail  and  told  him  not 
to  give  up;  to  trust  me  and  do  what  I  said,  and 
he  would  surely  get  relief.  I  told  him  to  write 
to  my  son  Francis,  who  was  at  the  Johns  Hopkins 
Medical  School  completing  his  course  there, 
inquiring  how  soon,  and  by  what  train,  he  could 
reach  Baltimore  from  the  West,  and  that  my  son 
would  meet  him  and  tell  him  what  to  do.  Then 
I  wrote  Francis,  enclosing  Al's  letter,  and  told 
him  to  read  it  to  Dr.  Gushing  and  let  me  know 
what   he   said.      I  got   a   prompt   answer   from 

(133) 


Francis,  saying,  "Dr.  Gushing  said,  'Tell  your 
father  if  he  wants  me  to  I  will  operate  on  his 
guide  without  any  charge.'"  Meanwhile  I  had 
received  a  letter  from  the  ranchman  urging  me 
to  do  something  soon,  as  Al  was  getting  desperate. 
He  said  Al  had  little  ready  money  left,  but  that 
a  Mr.  Z.  Hollingsworth,  who  lived  somewhere  in 
or  near  Boston,  was  devoted  to  Al  and  would 
help  him  financially  if  he  knew  the  critical  cir- 
cumstances. 

I  was  sick  in  bed  with  fever  when  I  got  this 
letter.  How  could  I  reach  Mr.  Hollingsworth 
without  any  address?  Next  to  my  bed,  however, 
was  the  telephone,  and  with  little  hope  of  suc- 
ceeding I  called  up  Central  and  said  I  wanted  to 
speak  to  a  Mr.  Z.  Hollingsworth  "in  or  near 
Boston."  In  less  than  three  minutes  the  answer 
came  back  "Mr.  Hollingsworth  is  on  the  phone." 
The  initial  "Z"  must  have  saved  the  day.  I 
told  Mr.  Hollingsworth  of  Al's  desperate  condi- 
tion; that  he  needed  money;  that  if  Mr.  Hol- 
lingsworth would  send  him  a  check  I  would  see 
to  the  rest,  and  that  I  thought  Al  could  be  saved 
only  by  prompt  work.  Mr.  Hollingsworth  was  most 
responsive  and  generous.  Al  had  guided  him  out 
West  many  times.  He  promised  he  would  send  a 
check  at  once,  and  he  sent  a  very  generous  one. 

When  my  son  met  Al  upon  his  arrival  in  Balti- 
more he  found  him  in  a  pitiful  condition  and  took 
him  to  the  hospital  at  once.  The  pain  was  so 
bad  he  had  neither  eaten  nor  slept,  but  he  tried 

(134) 


to  smile  in  his  old  way  when  he  saw  the  six-foot- 
four  man  he  had  left  a  child  in  the  Adirondacks. 
When  they  reached  the  hospital  Francis  was  so 
moved  by  Al's  appearance  of  terrible  suffering 
that  he  went  at  once  for  Dr.  Gushing  and  brought 
him  to  the  patient's  room.  Dr.  Gushing  told 
Francis  he  never  did  but  one  such  operation  a 
day,  and  that  he  had  five  patients  on  his  list  ahead 
of  Al;  but  he  said,  "  I  cannot  let  such  a  man  suffer 
that  long.  I'll  operate  tomorrow."  The  next 
day  he  exposed  and  destroyed  the  nerve  as  it 
emerges  from  the  Gasserian  ganglion  after  a 
long  and  delicate  operation.  The  following 
morning  Francis  went  to  see  Al,  who  looked  up 
at  him  with  his  one  unbandaged  eye,  smiled  a 
broad  smile  and  said,  "Those  doctors  have  got 
my  head  tied  on,  but  I  have  no  more  pain." 
And  he  has  never  had  another  attack  since, 
though  three  years  have  passed. 

I  know  few  things  that  have  happened  to  me  in 
life  that  have  given  me  more  pleasure  than  this 
incident,  and  I  shall  always  be  grateful  to  the 
great  surgeon  whose  wonderful  skill  could  save 
a  human  being  from  such  intolerable  suffering 
and  who  gave  it  so  freely,  without  money 
and  without  price.  Al  McKenzie  returned  to 
Golorado,  where  he  is  living  at  present. 

I  wrote  and  asked  Al  if  I  could  write  this  episode 
about  him  in  my  book  and  got  a  characteristic 
answer:  "Yes,  you  can  say  all  the  mean  things 
you  choose  about  me!" 

(  135  ) 


XI 

Up  to  1880  I  did  little  but  hunt  and  fish,  but 
after  that  my  interests  and  activities  began 
gradually  to  be  divided  equally  between  medicine 
and  hunting.  In  the  nineties  I  hunted  only  when 
I  could  get  away  from  my  work  and,  later,  on 
the  rare  occasions  when  we  all  went  down  to  Little 
Rapids  for  a  few  days'  rest  and  sport. 

I  have  often  been  asked  how  I  could  hunt  so 
much  without  fatigue  or  injury  to  my  health, 
but  I  rarely  had  fever  then  unless  I  tired  myself, 
and  the  hunting  required  only  slight  exertion 
and  kept  me  out  of  doors  all  day.  In  winter  I 
would  hunt  foxes  or  rabbits  every  day  with  Fitz 
Greene  Hallock,  and  in  the  fall  Al  McKenzie 
and  I  would  join  some  friend  from  Paul  Smith's 
and  go  into  camp,  deer  hunting.  Fitz  Hal- 
lock  would  occasionally  join  us  also  on  these 
trips. 

The  deer  hunting  in  those  days  was  done  with 
hounds,  which  drove  the  deer  to  inlets,  lakes  and 
runways,  and  as  I  was  usually  rowed  to  my 
watch-ground  I  rarely  had  any  walking  to  do  or 
tired  myself  at  all.  In  the  winter  Fitz  and  I 
drove  in  a  cutter  to  the  hunting  ground  and  1 

(137) 


moved  about  only  a  little.  I  remember  one 
winter,  besides  innumerable  rabbits,  we  killed 
twenty-one  red  foxes  ahead  of  our  hounds,  and 
the  next  winter,  twenty-two. 

When  the  snow  lies  thick  and  white  in  the 
woods  and  every  green  bough  in  the  swamps  is 
powdered  with  white  flakes,  hunting  the  Adiron- 
dack hares  with  a  hound  is  first-rate  sport.  The 
scenery  is  like  fairy-land,  every  twig  sparkles, 
and  the  musical  notes  of  the  hound  echo  on  the 
stillness  of  the  frosty  air,  while  the  big  white 
rabbits  appear  and  vanish  like  ghosts  in  the  open- 
ings of  the  dense  snow-laden  evergreens. 

Many  good  days  did  Fitz  and  I  spend  hunting 
rabbits  in  the  long  winter  months.  The  first 
requisite  is  a  good  rabbit  hound,  and  they  are 
rare.  Any  dog  may  run  a  rabbit,  but  few  ever 
reach  perfection;  and  of  this  I  have  had  ample 
experience.  The  first  requisite  is  that  the  dog 
must  pay  no  attention  to  a  fox  track;  and  the 
second — a  rare  quality — he  must  not  shift  rabbits, 
but  having  started  one  he  must  keep  to  that  one, 
no  matter  how  many  fresh  tracks  of  other  rabbits 
he  crosses.  I  had  many  dogs,  but  the  best  dog 
in  all  these  years  was  a  cross  between  a  beagle 
and  a  fox-hound,  called  "Bunnie. "  He  was 
absolutely  perfect.  He  would  not  look  at  a  fox- 
track,  and  when  he  started  one  rabbit  in  a  swamp 
full  of  other  rabbits  he  would  never  change,  but 
run  that  particular  rabbit  all  day.  This  enables 
the  hunter  to  choose  a  stand  intelligently,  and  not 

(138) 


merely  trust  to  accident,  as  when  a  poor  dog 
stirs  up  a  fresh  hare  every  few  minutes. 

When  temporarily  off  the  scent  I  have  often 
tried  to  start  Bunnie  on  a  fresh  rabbit  I  had  seen 
a  little  while  before;  but  after  one  or  two  careful 
sniffs  he  would  refuse  to  follow  the  track,  go  back 
to  where  he  lost  his  game  and  work  it  all  out 
patiently  until  he  was  in  full  cry  again.  I  owned 
him  from  the  time  he  was  a  puppy  until  he  died 
of  old  age,  and  I  hope  in  the  place  where  good 
dogs  go  the  ghosts  of  the  hundreds  of  hares  I 
killed  ahead  of  him  do  not  haunt  him. 

During  the  winter  of  1880  the  visitors  formed  a 
little  gun  club,  and  on  fine  afternoons  we  often  used 
to  shoot  pigeons  and  glass  balls  from  a  wooden 
stand  back  of  Mrs.  Evans's  house.  One  day 
someone  proposed  that  we  make  a  rabbit  sweep- 
stakes, and  the  proposition  was  enthusiastically 
received.  Each  sportsman  was  to  put  five  dollars 
in  a  pool,  and  as  there  were  eight  of  us  the  total 
reached  forty  dollars.  The  club  was  to  offer 
this  as  a  prize  to  the  man  who  killed  the  biggest 
rabbit  from  January  i  to  April  i.  Everyone  in 
the  village  entered  into  the  spirit  of  this  curious 
competition.  The  rabbits  were  all  weighed  at 
the  store  by  the  store-keeper,  Milo  Miller;  the 
figures  as  to  the  weight  were  written  on  a  little 
placard  with  the  name  of  the  successful  sportsman 
and  attached  to  the  rabbit,  which  was  then  hung 
in  full  view  of  the  village  in  front  of  the  store. 

Curiously  enough,   we   seemed   to   begin   with 

(139) 


small  rabbits — three  and  a  quarter;  then  a  week, 
and  three  and  a  half  pounds  was  reached;  then  a 
month,  and  three  pounds  eight  ounces  was  for  a 
long  time  the  champion.  The  competition  seemed 
to  lie  between  Mr.  E.  J.  King,  Mr.  E.  Curtis  and 
myself.  We  all  killed  many  rabbits,  but  it  was 
March  15  before  King  killed  a  four-pound  rabbit. 
Curtis  and  I  crept  up  by  ounces — four  pounds  two 
ounces,  four  pounds  three  ounces,  four  pounds  five 
ounces;  and  on  March  28  Curtis  took  down  my 
rabbit,  which  tipped  the  beam  at  four  pounds  five 
ounces,  and  to  my  great  disappointment  hung  up 
a  rabbit  weighing  four  pounds  six  ounces.  Every- 
body said  this  would  take  the  prize.  It  was  the 
biggest  of  hundreds  of  rabbits  killed  during  the 
contest.  Fitz  was  terribly  disappointed ;  he  thought 
our  four-pound-five-ounce  rabbit  would  never  be 
beaten ;  but  we  wasted  no  time,  and  hunted  almost 
all  day  for  the  last  three  days.  Both  of  my  best 
rabbit  dogs  were  worn  out  and  their  feet,  cut  by 
the  crust  on  the  snow,  were  bleeding  and  sore,  but 
Mr.  Curtis's  rabbit  still  hung  up  as  the  champion. 
I  can  see  Fitz  now  during  those  last  three  days: 
a  little  hatchet  in  one  hand  with  which,  after  I 
had  chosen  my  stand,  he  cleared  some  of  the 
brush  and  boughs  which  obstructed  my  view;  a 
spring  scale  in  the  other  hand  with  which  to  weigh 
the  rabbit;  his  face  stern  and  set  as  he  listened 
to  the  music  of  the  approaching  hound.  Curious 
as  it  may  seem,  this  was  earnest  work  for  us  both, 
as  we  certainly  wanted   to  win,   and   Fitz  was 

(140) 


hardly  on  speaking  terms  with  Mr.  Curtis's  guide. 
Fortunately  I  missed  few  shots  in  those  days,  but 
I  never  got  any  commendation  from  Fitz  but 
once,  when  I  killed  a  rabbit  that  bounded  most 
unexpectedly  across  a  little  opening  in  the  thicket 
to  my  right.  I  had  no  time  to  aim,  and  I  shot 
without  even  putting  my  gun  to  my  shoulder.  Fitz 
sprang  forward  to  weigh  the  game.  I  heard  him 
mutter,  "I  don't  see  how  he  does  it!"  and  that 
was  enough  for  me,  though  the  rabbit  turned 
out  to  weigh  only  a  little  over  three  pounds. 

On  the  morning  of  the  thirtieth  of  March,  Fitz 
brought  the  sleigh  to  the  door,  with  Bunnie  lying 
on  the  robe  licking  his  feet,  and  we  started.  Dur- 
ing the  drive  Fitz  informed  me  that  John  Benham 
had  told  him  of  a  little  swamp  at  the  foot  of  a  side 
hill  of  poplar  trees;  that  the  rabbit  tracks  in  these 
poplars  were  the  biggest  he  had  seen,  and  that 
was  the  place  we  were  bound  for.  Bunnie's 
feet  were  so  sore  he  could  hardly  walk,  but  as  soon 
as  he  got  scent  he  forgot  all  about  his  feet  and 
drove  his  game  in  his  usual  vigorous  style.  I  had 
shot  two  rabbits  on  the  side  hill  and  they  both 
turned  out  small.  It  was  snowing  and  I  was  cold 
and  discouraged,  but  dared  not  suggest  to  Fitz 
our  going  home,  when  Bunnie  started  a  third 
hare.  After  a  little  turn  in  the  swamp  the  rabbit 
took  to  the  side  hill,  and  such  a  long  turn  did  he 
make  that  the  dog  was  soon  out  of  hearing.  Fitz 
moved  me  to  where  they  had  left  the  swamp,  and 
there  we  stood,   I  shivering  and  wishing  myself 

(141) 


home,  Fitz  just  as  intent  as  ever.  The  dog  was 
just  coming  in  hearing  again  when  I  caught  sight 
of  the  rabbit  bounding  down  the  hill.  It  seemed 
to  me  I  never  saw  a  rabbit  take  such  long  jumps, 
and  as  he  went  by  me  I  killed  him.  Fitz  was  on 
him  in  a  minute.  I  saw  him  raise  the  spring 
scale  to  his  eye,  then  in  a  most  commanding  voice 
he  simply  said,  "Come  on!"  and  strode  toward 
the  place  where  the  horse  was  tied.  I  followed  as 
best  I  could.  He  had  the  horse  unblanketed  and 
was  in  the  cutter  when  I  reached  there.  He 
handed  me  the  reins  and  said,  "Run  your  horse; 
he  is  the  biggest  rabbit  yet."  We  flew  home,  as 
the  rabbit  was  bleeding.  As  we  entered  the  vil- 
lage on  the  run  the  guides  came  to  their  doors, 
guessing  something  unusual  had  happened,  and 
many  of  them  were  waiting  on  the  porch  of  the 
store,  into  which  Fitz  disappeared  at  once.  He 
soon  reappeared  among  the  laughing,  shouting 
men,  with  my  rabbit,  to  which  was  tied  a  tag  with 
my  name  and  the  legend,  "Four  pounds  eight 
and  a  half  ounces." 

That  was  a  proud  moment  for  Fitz  and  for  me! 
That  afternoon  and  for  many  following  after- 
noons the  entire  side  of  The  Berkeley  Hotel  was 
decorated  by  a  gigantic  white  paper  rabbit  on 
which  was  written  "Four  pounds  eight  and  a 
half  ounces."  This  was  done  by  a  friend  of  mine, 
Mr.  A.  W.  Durkee,  to  celebrate  the  great  event 
and  must  have  been  a  puzzling  sight  to  visitors, 
but  everybody  in  the  village  understood  it. 

(142) 


Fox  hunting  with  a  good  hound  is  a  fine  sport, 
for,  as  Fitz  used  to  put  it,  the  fox  has  all  America 
to  run  in,  and  the  hunter  has  to  use  judgment 
and  experience  to  decide  which  stand  to  choose, 
and  skill  to  be  near  enough  for  a  shot.  A  red  fox 
in  such  a  wild  country  is  rarely  pushed  by  the 
hound,  and  is  full  of  the  most  cunning  tricks  to 
throw  the  dog  off  the  scent.  A  first-class  hound 
with  plenty  of  experience  is  generally  a  match 
for  him,  but  occasionally  an  old  fox  proves  too 
cunning  for  the  best  of  them.  When  the  snow  is 
deep,  running  a  road  is  an  old  trick  of  the  fox's, 
for  a  frozen,  beaten  road  carries  no  scent. 

On  one  of  our  hunts  we  heard  the  hound  come 
straight  into  the  travelled  road  and  then  stop 
barking.  We  went  to  the  place  where  he  struck 
the  road,  but  although  the  snow  had  fallen  recently 
neither  of  us  could  discover  where  the  fox  left 
the  beaten  path.  Meanwhile  the  old  hound, 
after  the  manner  of  all  good  hounds,  went  back 
to  where  he  had  lost  the  scent,  then  began  to  run 
in  widening  circles,  knowing  that  in  this  way  he 
must  soon  cross  the  track  somewhere.  After  a 
long  hunt,  however,  he  came  back  to  us,  and  sat 
in  the  road  and  howled  and  howled  his  perplexity. 
Certainly  we  were  all  at  fault  that  day;  and  yet, 
as  Fitz  said,  the  fox  could  not  have  flown,  and  if 
he  hadn't  he  must  have  left  the  road  and  made 
a  track  somewhere  in  the  fresh  snow;  but  we 
found  no  track.  The  following  day  we  solved 
the  mystery!    Fitz  put  me  in  a  field  where  I  could 

( 143 ) 


see  the  place  where  the  fox  came  to  the  road,  and 
he  went  up  on  the  hill  with  the  dog.  Soon  the 
echoes  of  the  hound's  bark  told  me  he  had  again 
started  the  fox.  I  saw  the  cunning  old  Reynard 
come  to  the  road,  run  down  the  icy,  beaten  track 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  then  take  a  flying  leap 
from  the  road  and  land  on  top  of  a  rail-fence 
without  ever  touching  the  snow.  He  then  ran 
on  top  of  the  fence  two  or  three  hundred  yards, 
jumped  to  the  ground,  and  disappeared  behind 
a  little  knoll.  To  my  delight,  however,  he  came 
in  sight  again,  jumped  up  on  a  big  rock  about 
sixty  yards  from  where  I  stood,  curled  himself 
up  comfortably  and  lay  down,  deliberately  facing 
the  direction  from  which  the  dog  was  coming. 
I  could  see  his  ears  and  his  head  move  as,  from  the 
retreat  which  had  in  the  past  no  doubt  saved  him 
from  many  a  troublesome  hounds  he  followed  the 
sound  of  the  dog's  bark  and  waited  to  see  the 
hound's  discomfiture.  There  was  such  a  crust  I 
did  not  dare  move,  as  one  jump  would  land  him 
out  of  sight,  and  sixty  yards  is  a  long  shot;  but 
I  slipped  in  a  thread-wound  cartridge  and  ended 
his  enterprising  career  on  the  spot. 

It  is  easy  to  see  why  Fitz  and  I  could  not  find 
in  the  snow  any  evidence  of  his  having  left  the 
road,  and  why  even  the  old  hound's  cunning 
failed;  for  though  his  widening  circles  crossed  the 
fox's  track,  the  dog  went  through  the  rail-fence 
and  the  track  was  on  the  top  rail. 

Another  trick  of  an  old  fox  is  to  run  on  a  frozen 

(144) 


river,  and  at  every  opportunity  take  in  the  very 
edge  of  the  swift-running  water  where  the  ice  is 
necessarily  very  thin.  The  fox  weighs  about 
seven  pounds  and  the  dog  between  forty  and  fifty, 
so  that  the  ice  is  pretty  sure  to  give  way  with 
the  dog  and  the  swift  current  to  carry  him  under 
the  ice.  The  intention  of  the  fox  is  plain,  for  he 
goes  out  of  his  course  to  take  in  every  air  hole. 

This  happened  one  day  when  Fitz  and  I  were 
hunting  near  the  river.  The  fox  took  to  the  ice 
and  all  at  once  the  baying  of  the  hound  stopped 
suddenly.  Fitz  knew  what  had  happened,  and  we 
climbed  into  the  cutter  and  ran  the  horse  to  the 
swift  water.  Sure  enough,  there  was  our  old 
hound  in  the  rapid  water,  struggling  helplessly 
to  get  up  on  the  thin  ice  again.  I  begged  Fitz 
not  to  venture  in  such  a  dangerous  place,  but 
his  only  answer  was,  "Hold  my  gun."  I  watched 
him  lie  flat  and  crawl  out  carefully  on  the  treach- 
erous ice,  reach  for  the  dog's  collar  and  steady 
him  enough  to  enable  him  to  climb  out.  The  old 
dog  shook  himself,  rolled  in  the  snow  a  few  times, 
struck  the  trail  again,  gave  a  long,  joyous  bark 
and  was  off  at  full  speed.  We  had  the  satisfaction 
of  killing  the  fox  an  hour  later  while  he  was  trying 
to  lose  the  dog  by  running  the  road. 

The  characteristics  of  the  hounds  make  just  as 
interesting  a  study  as  those  of  the  fox.  I  had  two 
hounds  once  whose  hunting  was  so  different  that 
the  appearance  of  the  fox  ahead  of  them  would 
have  told  me  at  a  glance  which  dog  was  chasing 

(145)     . 


him  even  if  I  had  not  known  the  difference  in 
their  bark.  "Scream"  was  a  long-eared,  silver- 
tongued,  crooked-legged  harrier,  that  ran  true 
every  inch  of  the  track  and  never  neglected  to  put 
a  good  round  measure  of  music  with  every  step 
he  took.  Foxes  were  apparently  not  in  the  least 
afraid  of  him;  they  knew  just  where  he  was  all 
the  time  by  his  constant  music,  and  I  have  seen 
a  fox  he  was  chasing  run  out  in  a  field,  listen  to 
the  dog  a  little  while,  then  jump  on  a  stray  mouse 
and  run  off  with  the  mouse  in  his  mouth!  Old 
"Watch,"  on  the  other  hand,  was  a  tall,  strongly 
built,  pure  white  hound  with  a  black  patch  over 
one  eye.  He  barked  only  occasionally,  but  he 
ran  so  strong  and  steadily  that  when  the  fox  came 
in  sight  his  tail  was  generally  dragging,  his  mouth 
open  and  his  tongue  hanging  out.  Old  Watch 
had  short  runs,  for  the  fox  either  had  to  get  to  his 
hole,  which  he  generally  did  as  soon  as  possible, 
or  he  ran  the  risk  of  getting  caught. 

On  the  other  hand  an  old  fox  soon  knows  when 
a  puppy  is  after  him,  and  I  have  seen  the  puppy 
get  discouraged  and  start  for  home,  and  the  old 
fox  run  toward  him  as  though  to  persuade  him 
to  keep  on  with  the  chase. 

My  dogs  were  always  a  great  pleasure  to  me 
and  if  I  was  ever  tempted  to  extravagance  it  was 
in  the  purchase  of  a  noted  hound.  Dogs  have 
passed  entirely  out  of  my  life  with  one  small 
exception.  A  good  friend  of  my  wife's  gave  her, 
five  years  ago,  a  most  beautiful  Pekingese  pup, 

(146) 


and,  as  I  have  been  confined  to  my  room  and 
much  of  the  time  to  my  bed  during  these  years, 
"Ho  Yen"  became  my  devoted  companion.  Lying 
on  a  soft  bed  suited  him  admirably,  and  a  master 
who  was  always  in  bed  was  to  his  mind  the  kind 
of  master  to  tie  to.  So  it  has  come  about  that 
for  the  past  five  years  I  have  never  moved  with- 
out this  absurd  little  play  dog.  I  never  saw  any- 
thing incongruous  in  doing  so  until  one  day  last 
winter,  wrapped  up  in  furs,  I  sat  in  the  sleigh  with 
the  little  fellow  in  my  lap  as  usual.  Billy  Ring, 
one  of  my  old  hunting  guides,  walked  by.  He 
stopped,  and  taking  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth 
nodded  at  the  little  dog  and  said,  "Have  you  come 
to  that,  Doctor?"  Certainly  circumstances  alter 
cases,  for  in  the  old  days  I  should  have  despised 
such  a  little  toy  dog,  who  now  is  a  real  pleasure  in 
my  bed-ridden  days. 


(147) 


XII 

IN  answer  to  the  demand  for  winter  accommoda- 
tions the  first  step  in  the  upbuilding  of  Saranac 
Lake  had  taken  place,  and  a  small  hotel,  facetiously 
named  The  Berkeley,  had  been  built  on  the  main 
street  and  Charles  Gray  put  in  charge  of  it.  The 
Berkeley  accommodated  fifteen  or  twenty  guests, 
and  for  a  long  time  was  adequate  to  care  for  all 
the  visitors  at  Saranac  Lake.  The  first  guests 
were  Mr.  E.  J.  King,  Reverend  and  Mrs.  John  P. 
Lundy,  D.D.,  Mrs.  Ogden  Hoffman  and  her 
daughters,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jack  Morris,  and  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  E.  J.  Tytus. 

The  Reverend  Dr.  Lundy  held  Episcopal  ser- 
vices through  the  winter  in  the  parlor  of  The 
Berkeley,  and  not  only  the  visitors  but  many  of 
the  Saranac  Lake  residents  attended  them.  Dr. 
Lundy  and  the  Berkeley  colony  started  a  sub- 
scription to  build  an  Episcopal  church  during 
the  winter,  and  many  of  the  residents  subscribed 
money,  labor,  and  material.  Again  I  was  made 
treasurer.  A  committee  of  the  visitors  to  which  I 
belonged  had  many  meetings  that  winter  to  dis- 
cuss just  what  steps  should  be  taken  to  erect  the 
chapel,  but  opinions  on  many  essential  points 
differed   so  that  nothing  was  decided   by  early 

(149) 


spring,  when  the  visitors  all  separated  for  the 
summer.  One  gentleman  had  held  out  that  he 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  building  of  the 
church  until  every  cent  necessary  for  its  comple- 
tion was  subscribed.  I  told  him  that  he  would 
never  build  the  church  in  that  way,  and  that  if  it 
was  started  the  money  was  sure  to  come  in.  But 
I  failed  to  convince  him,  and  the  project  was 
abandoned. 

After  the  visitors  had  scattered  for  the  summer 
a  committee  from  the  residents  and  the  guides 
called  on  me  and  offered  to  make  good  their  sub- 
scriptions and  add  to  them  if  I  would  undertake 
the  building  of  the  church.  About  half  the 
necessary  funds  had  been  subscribed  then.  I 
told  them  I  would  do  as  they  requested  under  one 
condition,  namely,  that  I  was  to  have  entire 
charge,  and  that  I  was  to  be  allowed  to  build  the 
church  steeple  downward  and  the  foundation 
upward  if  I  saw  fit.  This  they  agreed  to.  When 
I  told  my  wife  of  this  she  smiled,  and  said  she  had 
often  noticed  that  I  was  fond  of  having  my  own 
way.  My  own  way  seemed  to  answer  the  purpose, 
however,  for  the  work  was  begun  at  once,  the 
money  forthcoming,  and  the  church  built  within 
a  few  months  without  the  slightest  friction. 

I  began  at  once  to  beg  money  from  my  Paul 
Smith  friends.  Mrs.  Thomas  Smith,  of  Brooklyn, 
gave  me  five  hundred  dollars,  and  many  others, 
smaller  sums.  Work  was  begun  May,  1878,  and 
the   church   was   finished   January,    1879.       The 

(150) 


first  service  was  held  January  12,  1879,  and  the 
Church  of  St.  Luke  the  Beloved  Physician,  was 
consecrated  July  10  of  the  same  year  by  the  Right 
Reverend  Wm.  C.  Doane,  D.D.,  Bishop  of 
Albany.  The  property  was  transferred  to  the 
Board  of  Missions  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal 
Church  in  the  Diocese  of  Albany.  Mr.  R.  M. 
Upjohn,  the  celebrated  church  architect,  gave  the 
plans.  The  three  stained-glass  chancel  windows, 
representing  the  figures  of  Faith,  Hope  and 
Charity,  were  given  by  Mrs.  R.  M.  Townsend  in 
memory  of  her  husband,  who  died  at  Saranac 
Lake.  The  front  window  was  the  gift  of  Miss 
Susie  Pa  ton.  All  the  other  windows  are  of  ground 
glass,  with  a  colored  border. 

The  land  was  given  by  Miss  Arvilla  Blood,  of 
Saranac  Lake;  the  bell  by  Mrs.  Edgar,  of  New 
York;  the  altar  and  priest's  chair  by  the  Reverend 
and  Mrs.  John  P.  Lundy;  the  Communion  linen 
by  Miss  Mary  King,  while  Mrs.  Ogden  Hoffman 
gave  the  font,  and  the  organ  was  presented  by 
the  young  people  of  Saranac  Lake. 

The  first  minister  in  charge  was  the  Reverend  C. 
S.  Knapp.  For  the  past  thirty-five  years  services 
have  been  held  continuously  at  St.  Luke's,  and  its 
ministrations  have  meant  much,  not  only  to  the 
residents  but  also  to  the  thousands  of  invalids 
who,  sick,  far  away  from  their  homes  and  friends, 
have  sought  health  in  Saranac  Lake.  I  have  been 
warden  of  the  vestry  ever  since  the  church  was 
built. 

(151) 


After  the  building  of  St.  Luke's,  new  houses 
began  to  spring  up  in  the  village  and  a  few  more 
people  stayed  during  the  winter  months.  The 
number  of  summer  visitors  at  Paul  Smith's 
increased.  I  had  more  patients  to  attend,  and 
began  to  take  more  interest  in  my  profession.  I 
subscribed  to  The  American  Journal  of  the  Medical 
Sciences,  the  Medical  News,  the  Medical  Record, 
and  Dr.  Walton  sent  me,  after  he  had  read  them, 
his  copies  of  the  English  Practitioner,  edited  by 
Anstie.  My  health  improved  steadily;  I  lost  my 
cough  almost  entirely  and  gained  weight,  though 
my  endurance  to  fatigue  never  became  normal 
and  any  active  exercise  made  me  very  short  of 
breath.  This  was  well  shown  by  Al  McKenzie's 
spontaneously  given  opinion  of  my  physical  con- 
dition at  that  time.  We  were  hunting  together 
and  trying  to  get  to  a  road  we  expected  the  fox 
to  cross.  It  was  a  little  uphill,  and  the  hound's 
bark  was  getting  nearer  and  nearer.  Al  was 
ahead,  but  I  had  to  stop  constantly  as  my  breath 
had  quite  given  out.  Al  saw  we  were  going  to 
be  too  late  to  intercept  the  fox,  but  resigned  him- 
self with  the  remark,  "Oh,  Doctor,  if  you  were 
only  half  as  good  as  you  look!"  How  true  this  is 
of  many  cases  of  arrested  pulmonary  disease! 

It  was  that  fall  that  Mr.  C.  M.  Lea,  who  had 
brought  his  wife  to  the  Adirondacks  during  the 
summer  for  her  health,  decided  to  have  her  remain 
through  the  winter.  Mrs.  Lea  was  a  most  attrac- 
tive and  refined  young  woman,  and  she  and  my 

(152) 


wife  proved  very  congenial  companions.  The 
Leas  had  one  little  girl,  Marjorie,  and  were  a 
great  addition  to  our  winter  colony.  Mr.  Lea  was 
devoted  to  his  young  wife  and  daughter,  and 
though  he  managed  in  some  way  to  keep  up  his 
active  interests  in  the  large  publishing  business 
of  the  firm  of  Lea  Brothers  &  Co.,  the  well-known 
medical  publishers,  he  spent  much  time  in  Saranac 
Lake.  This  necessitated  constant  trips  back  and 
forth,  but  his  devotion  never  faltered  at  obstacles, 
and  many  times  through  the  long  winters  he 
drove  in  an  open  sleigh  either  sixty  miles  from 
Plattsburg  or  forty-two  miles  from  Ausable 
Forks,  through  blizzards  and  snowdrifts  and 
intense  cold,  to  spend  with  his  wife  and  child 
the  few  days  he  could  snatch  from  his  business 
engagements. 

He  and  I  had  many  interests  in  common,  espe- 
cially medicine  and  hunting;  he  knew  all  about 
doctors  and  medical  books,  and  was  the  only  man 
with  whom  I  could  discuss  medical  subjects.  On 
the  other  hand  it  was  no  doubt  a  comfort  to  him 
to  leave  Mrs.  Lea  with  such  friends  during  her 
enforced  absence.  A  strong  friendship  grew  up 
between  us — the  kind  of  friendship  that  is  one  of 
the  best  things  in  life,  and  that  neither  time  nor 
space  nor  prolonged  separation  can  obliterate; 
a  friendship  which  continues  as  warm  today  as  it 
was  thirty-five  years  ago. 

Mr.  Lea  was  one  of  the  four  original  trustees 
of  the  Sanitarium,  and  he  and  I  are  the  only  ones 

(153) 


now  living.  From  the  first  he  encouraged  me  and 
helped  me  to  carry  out  my  plan,  which  then  seemed 
quixotic  enough  to  almost  everybody  else. 

The  idea  of  building  the  Sanitarium  originated 
on  my  reading,  in  1882,  in  Anstie's  English  Prac- 
titioner, which  Dr.  Walton  sent  me  regularly, 
an  account  of  a  visit  to  Brehmer's  Sanitarium  in 
Silesia  and  a  discussion  of  Brehmer's  views  as  to 
the  value  of  sanatorium  treatment  in  pulmonary 
tuberculosis.  Brehmer  was  the  originator  of  the 
sanatorium  method,  the  essence  of  which  was  rest, 
fresh  air  and  a  daily  regulation  by  the  physician 
of  the  patient's  life  and  habits.  Brehmer,  however, 
had  an  idea  that  tuberculosis  of  the  lungs  was 
somewhat  dependent  on,  or  at  least  related  to, 
a  small  heart,  and  after  the  fever  had  fallen  he 
attached  much  importance  to  graded  climbing 
exercises  for  his  patients  to  strengthen  the  heart. 

Dettweiler,  a  patient  and  pupil  of  his,  built 
a  sanatorium  at  Falkenstein  in  Germany,  where 
he  followed  Brehmer's  method,  except  that  Dett- 
weiler was  an  ardent  advocate  of  complete  rest, 
and  he  did  not  believe  that  a  small  heart  had 
any  special  relation  to  pulmonary  tuberculosis. 

I  was  much  impressed  with  the  articles  I  read 
on  the  subject  in  the  English  Practitioner,  and 
though  I  saw  no  reference  to  either  Brehmer's 
or  Dettweiler's  work  in  my  American  journals,  I 
became  desirous  of  making  a  test  of  this  new 
method  in  treating  some  of  my  tuberculous 
patients. 

(154) 


I  was  also  much  impressed  at  that  time  with 
the  difficulty  of  obtaining  suitable  accommoda- 
tions in  the  Adirondacks  for  patients  of  moderate 
means.  The  rich  and  well-to-do  could  hire  one 
of  the  few  guides*  cottages  in  Saranac  Lake  or 
pay  them  well  for  taking  them  to  board,  but 
there  was  absolutely  no  place  for  the  working 
men  and  women  who  came  here  with  short  purses. 
It  therefore  occurred  to  me  that  a  good  piece  of 
work  could  be  done  in  helping  these  invalids,  for 
whom  my  sympathy  ever  since  my  brother's 
death  had  always  been  keen,  by  building  a  few 
small  cottages  where  they  could  be  taken  at  a 
little  less  than  cost,  and  where  the  sanatorium 
method  could  be  tried. 

With  my  usual  enthusiasm  about  money  mat- 
ters, it  seemed  to  me  it  would  be  quite  easy  during 
the  summer  at  Paul  Smith's  for  me  to  induce 
some  of  my  patients  there  to  subscribe  something 
toward  the  running  of  such  an  Adirondack  insti- 
tution, and,  as  I  decided  from  the  first  to  give  my 
own  work  free,  I  could  ask  for  money  to  carry  out 
my  plan. 

About  this  time  Mr.  D.  W.  Riddle  came  to  the 
Adirondacks  for  his  health,  which  was  most 
seriously  impaired,  and  became  a  patient  of  mine. 
I  talked  over  with  him  from  time  to  time  my 
sanitarium  project,  and  from  the  first  he  took  a 
great  interest,  and  offered  to  help  in  any  way  in 
his  power.  As  he  was  a  good  business  man  and 
had  had  much  experience  in  building,   his  help 

(155) 


proved  to  be  most  practical  and  acceptable.  He 
was  familiar  with  the  part  of  the  work  about 
which  I  knew  nothing.  He  recovered  his  health 
in  a  great  measure,  and  for  thirty  years  gave  me 
his  efficient  help  whenever  called  upon. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a  strong  friendship 
between  us  which  lasted  unbroken  to  the  day  of 
his  death;  a  friendship  which  even  now  is  helpful 
to  me  to  look  back  upon  on  the  many  occasions 
when  I  miss  his  presence.  He  brought  his  family 
and  took  up  his  residence  continuously  in  the 
Adirondacks,  while  all  my  other  friends  who 
were  trustees  only  came  occasionally,  and  he  was 
thus  ever  on  hand  and  available  to  assist  me  in 
any  emergency  during  the  early  struggles  of  the 
Sanitarium,  and  in  meeting  the  practical  prob- 
lems of  finances,  building  and  administration 
which  were  constantly  coming  up.  From  the 
very  first  to  the  day  of  his  death  in  June,  1913,  he 
was  Treasurer  of  the  Sanitarium,  administered  its 
finances,  kept  its  books,  and  presented  the  accu- 
rate and  careful  financial  reports  which  I  pub- 
lished with  the  general  report  each  year. 

One  of  the  greatest  services  Mr.  Riddle  rendered 
the  Sanitarium  was  to  watch  over  its  finances, 
especially  in  the  early  days  when  the  existence 
of  the  struggling  little  institution  seemed  to 
everybody  most  precarious.  In  the  very  early 
days,  and  later  with  the  assistance  of  Mrs.  Charles 
R.  Armstrong,  who  gave  the  institution  her  most 
devoted  work  for  many  years  as  Superintendent^ 

(156) 


Mr.  Riddle  so  conserved  the  slender  resources 
of  the  institution  that  it  was  saved  from  financial 
wreck:  a  calamity  that  I  fear  would  have  over- 
taken it  without  their  painstaking  watchfulness. 

In  after  years,  when  I  began  to  raise  an  endow- 
ment fund,  I  would  often  approach  Mr.  Riddle  as 
to  the  advisability  of  taking  some  of  the  interest 
of  the  fund  for  some  cherished  plan  or  improve- 
ment that  I  had  in  view;  my  old  friend  would 
always  say  he  would  do  as  I  pleased,  of  course, 
but  that  if  I  took  his  advice  the  interest  of  the 
endowment  fund  should  be  allowed  to  accumulate 
if  the  institution  was  ever  to  be  established  on  a 
firm,  financial  basis;  and  this  advice,  in  spite  of 
constant  needs  for  money,  I  followed  for  twenty- 
five  years.  Today  the  Sanitarium  is  reaping  the 
benefit  of  his  good  judgment  and  friendly  insis- 
tence. 

My  friend,  Mr.  George  S.  Brewster,  consented 
to  step  into  the  breach  left  by  Mr.  Riddle's  death, 
and  to  my  intense  relief  became  Treasurer,  shoul- 
dering cheerfully  this  thankless  and  not  incon- 
siderable burden  of  responsibility  and  work. 

In  the  summer  of  1882  I  again  met  Dr.  Alfred 
Loomis  at  Paul  Smith's,  and  told  him  it  seemed  to 
me  too  bad,  owing  to  the  high  prices  and  the  lack 
of  cheap  accommodations,  that  some  of  the  poor 
sick  people  in  cities  could  not  have  the  chance  of 
improvement  I  had  had  by  coming  to  the  Adiron- 
dacks.  I  then  unfolded  to  him  my  plan  of  building 
a  few  cottages  at  Saranac  Lake,  where  such  an 

(157) 


opportunity  could  be  given  these  patients  at  less 
than  cost,  and  where  I  could  test  Brehmer's  and 
Dettweiler's  rest,  open-air  and  sanatorium  methods 
as  well.  He  approved  at  once,  and  said  he  would 
be  glad  to  send  me  such  patients  as  they  applied 
to  him  in  the  city,  and  that  he  would  examine 
them  free  of  charge.  This  he  did  to  the  day  of 
his  death  in  1895,  and  gave  the  institution  the 
support  of  his  great  name. 

I  also  spoke  of  my  plans  to  several  of  my  patients 
and  friends,  and  they  took  an  interest  and  offered 
to  help  me  in  a  general  way,  but  the  first  subscrip- 
tion I  received  was  from  Mr.  Anson  Phelps  Stokes. 
It  was  a  beautiful  September  day,  and  we  were 
sailing  back  to  my  camp  on  Spitfire  Lake  in  his 
boat,  the  "Delos".  We  spoke  of  the  wonderful, 
bracing  character  of  the  air  and  the  beauty  of 
the  woods,  the  mountains  and  the  lakes,  and  I 
expressed  the  wish  that  some  of  the  poor  invalids 
shut  up  in  cities  might  have  the  opportunity  for 
recovery  which  the  climate  offered  and  which  had 
done  so  much  for  me.  I  then  told  him  of  my  plan 
to  build  a  little  institution  at  Saranac  Lake  where 
such  cases  could  come  for  less  than  cost  and  remain 
as  long  as  necessary.  He  seemed  much  struck 
with  the  idea,  and  told  me  that  if  I  carried  out 
my  plan  I  could  call  on  him  for  five  hundred  dollars 
at  any  time.  This  was  the  first  subscription  I 
received,  and  from  that  time  I  got  a  little  book 
and  solicited  subscriptions  at  every  opportunity — 
and  am  still  doing  it.    In  1900  Mr.  Stokes  became 

(158) 


a  trustee  of  the  Sanitarium,  and  served  in  this 
capacity  until  his  death  in  191 3. 

Mrs.  Stokes  always  gave  the  institution  her 
most  loyal  support  and  substantial  help,  and  by 
her  efforts  in  raising  funds  relieved  me  for  many 
years  of  harrassing  financial  anxieties  in  meeting 
the  yearly  deficit  in  running  expenses.  The  sum- 
mer after  my  conversation  with  Mr.  Stokes  in 
the  sail-boat  she  held  an  open-air  fair  at  her 
camp  for  the  benefit  of  the  institution,  and  estab- 
lished a  precedent  for  an  annual  fair  at  Paul 
Smith's— with  the  help  of  Mrs.  A.  J.  Milbank  and 
a  band  of  ladies,  all  loyal  and  devoted  friends  of 
the  Sanitarium — which  was  held  for  many  years 
and  from  which  always  has  been  derived  the  prin- 
cipal support  of  the  growing  work.  Later,  as  the 
necessity  for  trying  to  accumulate  an  endowment 
fund  became  more  and  more  manifest  to  me,  I 
spoke  to  Mrs.  Stokes  of  this  essential  need,  and 
she  at  once  undertook  to  raise  money  for  this 
fund,  and  through  her  influence  and  her  efforts 
many  substantial  subscriptions  were  added  to  it. 

We  all  began  at  this  time  to  go  to  New  York 
for  a  visit  of  about  two  weeks,  once  or  twice  each 
year,  usually  in  the  fall  and  occasionally  in  the 
spring  also.  When  I  went  down  that  fall  I  took 
my  little  book  with  me  and,  putting  my  pride  in 
my  pocket,  called  while  in  town  on  all  the  people 
I  thought  would  be  likely  to  help  me  and  asked 
them  for  a  subscription.  Most  men  would  have 
shrunk  from  such  a  disagreeable  task,  but  I  was 

(159) 


always  keenly  interested  in  everything  I  under- 
took and  was  by  temperament  an  optimist,  so  I 
never  hesitated.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  had  no 
unpleasant  experiences,  and  a  few  very  pleasant 
ones.  Most  people  couldn't  understand  just  what 
I  wanted  to  do,  because,  they  always  argued, 
consumption  couldn't  be  cured;  an  aggregation 
of  such  invalids  would  be  so  depressing  that  no 
one  would  stay  in  such  a  place,  and  besides,  the 
region  was  so  inaccessible — ^forty-two  miles  from 
a  railroad — and  the  climate  so  rough  that  my 
plan  seemed  to  them  entirely  visionary.  I  think 
they  all  thought  I  meant  well,  however,  for  they 
generally  gave  me  something,  even  if  it  were  only 
a  small  amount;  and  when  they  refused  they 
were  usually  very  pleasant  about  it. 

Occasionally  I  had  a  surprise.  I  had  been 
advised  to  call  on  Mr.  D.  Willis  James,  who  had 
the  reputation  of  being  very  generous;  but  as 
I  did  not  know  him  and  dreaded  going,  I  had  put 
it  off.  Finally  I  went.  As  I  walked  up  the  big 
brown-stone  stoop  and  rang  the  door-bell  I  had 
anticipations  of  a  reception  such  as  must  often 
be  accorded  to  a  troublesome  book  agent.  I  was 
shown  into  a  beautiful  parlor,  and  a  kindly, 
middle-aged  gentleman  came  forward  with  an 
outstretched  hand  to  meet  me.  This  was  Mr. 
James.  I  stood  up  and  tried  to  explain  as  quickly 
and  clearly  as  possible  who  I  was,  and  that  I 
had  come  to  ask  for  money  to  build  a  little  hospital 
for  consumptives  in  the  Adirondacks.    Mr.  James 

(160) 


smiled  pleasantly  and  told  me  to  sit  down  and 
tell  him  all  about  it.  I  imagine  I  did,  and  when 
I  stopped  for  want  of  breath  he  put  on  his  glasses 
and  asked  me  to  let  him  see  the  names  on  my 
book.  The  subscriptions  ran  from  five  dollars  to 
five  hundred  dollars.  He  took  out  his  pen  and 
wrote  down  his  name  for  twenty-five  hundred 
dollars!  He  treated  me  as  if  I  had  done  him  a 
favor  by  giving  him  the  opportunity  of  subscribing; 
walked  to  the  front  door  with  me,  shook  my  hand 
again  and  wished  me  all  success.  I  never  saw  him 
again,  but  his  generosity  and  pleasant  reception 
were  long  a  source  of  encouragement  to  me. 

I  walked  home  on  air!  It  was  my  first  discovery 
of  the  pleasure  of  successfully  begging  for  others. 
The  fact  that  there  are  pleasant  experiences  to 
be  derived  from  such  a  usually  unpleasant  task 
as  begging  money,  even  when  for  a  good  cause, 
was  revealed  to  me  for  the  first  time  then,  and  has 
been  often  amply  confirmed  during  an  experience 
of  thirty  years  in  the  same  direction. 

Some  time  after  my  visit  to  Mr.  James  I  had 
an  even  more  cheering  episode  of  the  same  charac- 
ter. It  was  at  a  time  in  the  early  struggles  of  the 
institution,  when  there  was  everything  to  be  done 
and  no  money  to  do  it  with.  I  wanted  land,  and 
water,  and  sidewalks,  and  a  laundry,  and  a 
hundred  things  that  seemed  absolutely  indispen- 
sable, and  yet  I  saw  that  all  we  could  hope  to  do 
was  to  meet  our  annual  deficit  on  running  expenses 
that  year.     I  was  so  discouraged  that  in  driving 

(161) 


down  the  hill  from  the  Sanitarium  with  my  wife 
the  week  before,  I  had  expressed  the  desire  that 
some  one  should  put  a  keg  of  dynamite  under  the 
Main  Building  and  blow  the  whole  thing  in  the 
air.  At  that  time  I  was  hoping  to  get  a  subscrip- 
tion from  Mrs.  Charles  E.  Sprague,  of  Boston, 
who  had  shown  much  interest  in  my  work,  and 
had  she  given  me  two  hundred  dollars  I  should 
have  been  wonderfully  pleased.  When  I  received 
a  check  from  her  I  rubbed  my  eyes  and  looked  at 
it  again,  for  there  seemed  to  be  too  many  ciphers. 
I  suggested  that  there  must  be  some  mistake  in 
the  check,  but  she  said  there  was  no  mistake. 
And  yet  the  check  was  plainly  written  for  twenty 
thousand  dollars!  I  asked  what  she  wanted  me 
to  do  with  all  this  money,  and  she  capped  the 
climax  to  her  princely  gift  by  saying,  "Do  just 
whatever  you  please  with  it."  It  is  not  hard  to 
imagine  what  pleasure  I  had  in  doing  as  she  sug- 
gested. 

The  generosity  and  readiness  with  which  people 
have  given  me  money  has  ever  been  and  is  even 
now  a  matter  of  wonderment  to  me.  It  is  no 
doubt  greatly  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that 
my  contact  with  peoples'  lives  has  generally  been 
in  a  relation  which  often  enabled  me  to  be  of  help 
to  the  sick  ones  they  loved,  and  at  a  time  when 
they  themselves  were  in  trouble.  The  gifts  to 
the  Sanitarium  have  been  in  a  great  measure  a 
tribute  to  their  loved  ones,  and  an  expression  of 
their  desire  to  help  others  in  their  struggle  with 

(162) 


illness.  I  hope  also  that  gratitude  from  patients 
with  whom  I  have  had  intimate  contact  through 
the  long  struggle  of  chronic  and  often  hopeless 
illness,  and  the  appreciation  of  their  friends  for 
what  I  have  tried  to  do  to  advise  and  cheer  and 
comfort  those  they  loved,  has  had  a  certain 
influence  in  the  liberal  and  constant  response  my 
appeals  for  the  Sanitarium  have  always  met.  The 
personal  element  must  enter  to  some  extent  into 
such  work,  for  all  appeals  to  the  public,  no  matter 
where  or  how  well  presented,  which  have  been 
made  at  different  times  in  print  by  friends  of  the 
institution,  have  never  met  with  the  least  response. 

The  constancy  of  the  Sanitarium's  friends  in 
giving  has  also  made  a  deep  impression  upon  me 
now  that  ill  health  and  enforced  withdrawal  from 
active  life  prevent  my  coming  in  contact  with 
new  people  as  I  formerly  did,  making  new  friends 
and  securing  new  contributors  for  the  Sanitarium. 
Truly  the  old  friends  have  been  good  friends 
indeed,  for  almost  all  the  original  subscribers  of 
thirty  years  ago  who  are  still  living  continue  to 
send  their  checks  each  year  for  the  support  of  the 
work. 

When  we  returned  to  Saranac  Lake  from  our 
New  York  trip  I  had  collected  over  three  thousand 
dollars,  and  kept  on  steadily  adding  to  my  sub- 
scription list;  so  I  felt  that  by  the  next  spring 
we  would  be  warranted  in  making  a  start  and  in 
putting  up  a  little  building. 

(163) 


XIII 

THE  first  thing  to  do  was  to  choose  the  site.  Mr. 
Riddle  favored  a  beautiful  plateau  of  about 
eighty  acres  several  hundred  feet  above  the  river, 
and  now  closely  built  up  as  a  residential  district 
of  Saranac  Lake.  From  my  fox-hunting  experi- 
ences I  knew  how  little  sheltered  this  beautiful  site 
was,  for  it  was  swept  by  both  the  south  and  west 
winds — the  prevailing  winds — and  for  that  reason 
I  never  could  stand  there  in  winter  while  hunt- 
ing. Just  beyond  this  site,  and  beyond  a 
jutting  projection  of  the  hill,  was  a  little  level 
piece  of  ground,  my  favorite  fox  runway,  where 
I  had  spent  many  days  while  hunting  with  Fitz 
Hallock,  which  was  always  perfectly  sheltered 
from  both  the  south  and  west  winds.  Here  the 
mountains,  covered  with  an  unbroken  forest, 
rose  so  abruptly  from  the  river,  and  the  sweep 
of  the  valley  at  their  base  was  so  extended  and 
picturesque,  that  the  view  had  always  made  a 
deep  impression  upon  me.  Many  a  beautiful 
afternoon,  for  the  first  four  winters  after  I  came 
to  Saranac  Lake,  I  had  sat  for  hours  alone  while 
hunting,  facing  the  ever-changing  phases  of  light 
and  shade  on  the  imposing  mountain  panorama 

(165) 


at  my  feet,  and  dreamed  the  dreams  of  youth; 
dreamed  of  life  and  death  and  God,  and  yearned 
for  a  closer  contact  with  the  Great  Spirit  who 
planned  it  all,  and  for  light  on  the  hidden  meaning 
of  our  troublous  existence.  The  grandeur  and 
peace  of  it  had  ever  brought  refreshment  to  my 
perplexed  spirit. 

This  spot  always  has  had  a  wonderful  influence 
on  me,  and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  I 
decided  almost  at  once  to  place  the  first  little 
wooden  building  of  my  proposed  Sanitarium  on 
it.  After  thirty  years'  experience  I  can  say  that  I 
have  never  regretted  it,  and  the  view  from  the 
Sanitarium  has  been  one  of  its  most  valuable 
assets. 

There  are  two  places  in  the  Adirondacks  which 
have  ever  been  constantly  and  intimately  con- 
nected with  all  that  has  been  best  to  me  in  life; 
one,  the  old  fox  runway  on  the  side  of  Pisgah 
Mountain,  now  the  site  of  the  Adirondack  Cot- 
tage Sanitarium,  and  the  other  the  little  church- 
yard near  St.  John's  in  the  Wilderness  at  Paul 
Smith's.  One  has  for  over  thirty  years  been  asso- 
ciated with  the  most  strenuous  struggles  and 
experiences  of  my  working  days,  and  about  the 
other  center  all  the  highest  aspirations  and  the 
most  tender  memories  of  my  life  and  of  my  dear 
ones  gone  before. 

Mr.  Riddle,  Mr.  Penfold  and  Mr.  Lea,  as  well 
as  Fitz  Hallock,  all  agreed  with  my  decision, 
although  Fitz  expressed  to  someone  the  opinion 

(166) 


that  it  was  too  bad  to  spoil  a  good  fox  runway  by 
building  a  sanitarium  on  it. 

The  guides  gave  me  a  most  pleasant  surprise 
by  purchasing  sixteen  acres  of  "Preacher  Smith's 
pasture"  (the  coveted  site)  and  presenting  it 
to  me  for  the  purpose  I  had  in  view.  The  land 
itself  had  a  most  unattractive  and  rugged  ap- 
pearance at  the  time,  as  it  was  covered  every- 
where with  huge  boulders  and  looked  more  like 
a  pasture  for  goats  than  a  building  site.  These 
boulders,  however,  though  not  at  all  ornamental, 
turned  out  to  be  very  useful,  as  they  always 
furnished  on  the  spot  all  the  stone  I  wanted  for 
the  new  buildings  put  up  each  year. 

The  price  of  land  has  not  been  unfavorably 
influenced  by  my  building  the  Sanitarium,  for 
my  friends  the  guides  paid  twenty-five  dollars  an 
acre  for  this  choice  site,  and  the  last  addition  to 
the  Sanitarium  property  was  made  by  a  gift  of 
five  acres  from  Mr.  D.  Lome  McGibbon,  of 
Montreal,  for  which  he  paid  five  thousand  dollars. 

I  had  no  knowledge  whatever  of  what  sort  of 
buildings  to  plan  for  such  a  sanitarium,  nor  was 
such  information  to  be  found  in  books  then. 
Although  at  that  time  tuberculosis  was  not  looked 
upon  as  a  transmissible  disease,  consumptives 
freely  occupying  the  medical  wards  in  general 
hospitals  side  by  side  with  all  other  non-contagious 
cases,  I  felt  that  aggregation  should  be  avoided, 
and  that  segregation,  such  as  could  be  secured  by 
the  cottage  plan,  would  be  preferable  for  many  rea- 

(167) 


sons.  By  adopting  this  plan  an  abundant  supply 
of  air  could  be  secured  for  the  patient,  the  irrita- 
tion of  constant  close  contact  with  many  strangers 
could  be  avoided,  and  I  knew  it  would  be  easier 
to  get  some  of  my  patients  to  give  a  little  cottage 
which  would  be  their  own  individual  gift,  rather 
than  a  corresponding  sum  of  money  toward  the 
erection  of  larger  buildings. 

I  decided  to  begin  with  one  wing  of  a  main 
building,  with  a  little  sitting-room,  a  dining-room, 
a  kitchen,  and  accommodations  where  the  adminis- 
trative department  could  be  housed,  and  then  to 
build  two  small  cottages  and  add  to  the  number  of 
these  as  time  passed.  When  later  the  transmissi- 
bility  of  tuberculosis  by  the  tubercle  bacillus 
became  generally  accepted,  I  had  reason  to  be 
thankful  that  I  had  from  the  first  adopted  the 
cottage  plan. 

After  securing  a  site  and  some  crude  plans  for 
the  proposed  humble  little  structure,  I  put  the 
building  business  into  Mr.  Riddle's  helpful  hands 
and  turned  my  attention  to  the  matter  of  securing 
someone  to  run  the  place.  I  had  no  more  idea 
about  what  sort  of  a  staff  I  needed  or  could  pro- 
cure with  the  limited  means  at  my  command 
than  I  had  about  the  architectural  requirements 
of  a  sanitarium  for  the  open-air  treatment  of  tuber- 
culosis. I  finally  waded  in,  as  usual,  and  hired 
M.  J.  Norton,  a  man  who  had  been  a  small  farmer 
in  the  region,  and  made  an  agreement  with  him 
for  a  year  for  his  services  in  doing  the  outside 

(168) 


work  of  the  place,  and  for  the  services  of  his  wife 
and  two  daughters,  one  eighteen  and  the  other 
fifteen,  to  take  charge  of  the  housekeeping  and 
inside  work.  He  was  also  to  furnish  his  horse  and 
cart.  Of  course  none  of  these  people  had  ever 
heard  of  a  sanitarium,  or  had  the  slightest  idea 
of  what  it  was  intended  to  do,  except  to  furnish 
board  and  lodging  to  a  few  invalids. 

The  building  of  a  little  rough-board  barn  and 
a  portion  of  the  main  building  had  progressed 
sufficiently  by  the  middle  of  the  summer  of  1884 
to  enable  Mr.  Norton  to  move  his  family  in  and 
live  on  the  place,  and  late  in  the  fall  Dr.  Loomis 
sent  up  the  first  two  patients — two  sisters,  both 
factory  girls;  one,  Alice  Hunt,  had  pulmonary 
tuberculosis,  and  the  other,  Mary  Hunt,  had  had 
Pott's  disease  and  now  showed  slight  evidences 
of  pulmonary  tuberculosis  as  well.  Dr.  Loomis 
had  found  someone  willing  to  pay  their  expenses 
and  had  sent  them  up  on  this  account,  as  nothing 
would  have  been  done  for  them  at  their  home, 
a  crowded  tenement.  They  were  both  in  wretched 
health,  poorly  clad  to  stand  the  Adirondack  winter 
cold,  and  were  nearly  dead  with  fatigue  when 
they  reached  the  Sanitarium  after  a  forty-two 
mile  drive  from  Ausable  Forks.  Mrs.  Norton  and 
her  daughters  took  them  right  into  the  family 
circle,  my  wife  got  some  warm  clothes  for  them, 
and  I  examined  them  and  advised  them  as  to 
what  to  do,  and  encouraged  them  to  the  best  of 
my  ability. 

(169) 


At  that  time  only  the  foundations  and  frame  of 
the  first  little  cottage  had  been  built,  and  the 
cottage  was  not  completed  and  occupied  until 
February  i,  1885.  In  looking  at  it  now  it  seems 
rather  curious  why  it  should  have  been  delayed 
so  long,  for  it  certainly  was  a  most  modest  under- 
taking; but  with  neither  men  nor  money  avail- 
able, I  imagine  Mr.  Riddle  did  all  that  could  be 
done  under  the  circumstances.  This  first  cottage 
consisted  of  one  room,  fourteen  by  eighteen,  and 
a  little  porch  so  small  that  only  one  patient  could 
sit  out  at  a  time,  and  with  difficulty.  It  was  fur- 
nished with  a  wood  stove,  two  cot-beds,  a  wash- 
stand,  two  chairs  and  a  kerosene  lamp,  and  cost, 
as  I  remember,  about  four  hundred  dollars  when 
completed.  The  money  was  obtained  by  Mr. 
C.  M.  Lea  from  a  Mrs.  Jenks,  a  lady  in  Phila- 
delphia. 

This  humble  little  building  has  become  some- 
what historical  now,  and  has  always  been  known 
at  the  Sanitarium  as  "The  Little  Red."  Humble 
as  it  undoubtedly  is,  it  was  nevertheless  the 
pioneer  cottage  in  the  development  of  the  sana- 
torium treatment  in  America,  and  has  stood  for 
a  great  principle  of  treatment  which  will  long 
survive  the  little  building.  At  present  it  is  kept 
in  repair  as  a  relic,  and  used  as  a  little  museum 
for  other  relics  connected  with  the  history  of  the 
institution. 

"Memory  and  mental  imagery"  are  certainly 
a  wonderful  piece  of  human  mechanism,  for  now, 

(170) 


THE    LITTLE    RED 


looking  back  over  the  long  span  of  thirty  years, 
I  can  distinctly  see  the  Adirondack  Cottage 
Sanitarium  in  all  its  incongruous  details,  in  the 
midst  of  its  beautiful  natural  environment  of 
mountains  and  unbroken  forest.  The  grounds 
were  a  rough  hillside  covered  with  scant  grass, 
through  which  everywhere  jutted  boulders  of 
varying  sizes,  a  few  rising  four  or  five  feet  above 
the  ground.  Not  a  sidewalk,  not  a  path  anywhere! 
The  buildings,  a  small  rough-board  and  shingle 
bam,  one  unpainted  wing  of  the  main  building 
without  any  porch,  and  one  small  unpainted 
cottage!  The  patients,  two  frail,  ill-clad  factory 
girls !  The  staff,  a  farmer,  his  wife  and  two  daugh- 
ters— all  this  humble  agglomeration  situated  in 
an  unbroken  forest  forty- two  miles  from  the 
nearest  railroad!  Truly,  I  must  have  been  an 
optimist  by  nature,  and  the  joy  of  life  and  youth 
must  have  run  in  my  veins  then,  for  I  was  not  in 
the  least  discouraged  as  I  viewed  my  old  fox  run- 
way, now  ruined  for  hunting  purposes.  I  don't 
know  what  Fitz  Hallock  thought  of  it,  but  I  am 
quite  sure  that  under  the  circumstances  he  hardly 
shared  my  enthusiasm. 

Last  year  I  was  standing  with  Dr.  Hermann 
M.  Biggs  on  the  porch  of  the  Medical  Building, 
when  he  made  a  remark  to  me  which  I  have 
treasured  ever  since: 

"Doctor,  I  think  it  is  the  most  beautiful  insti- 
tution of  its  kind  I  have  ever  seen!"  I  am  glad 
Dr.  Biggs  did  not  see  it  thirty  years  ago. 

(171) 


The  mountains  now  look  down  on  a  different 
scene.  The  old  boulders  and  the  rough  pasture 
have  disappeared,  and  macadamized  roads,  slop- 
ing grass  lawns,  flower  beds  and  ornamental 
shrubs  have  taken  their  place.  The  Sanitarium 
has  grown  to  be  a  picturesque  little  village. 
It  comprises  thirty-six  buildings  scattered  over 
the  entire  hillside  between  the  north  and  south 
gates,  a  distance  of  about  three-quarters  ^  of  a 
mile.  The  patients'  cottages  are  grouped  about 
the  large  Administration  Building,  and  other  cot- 
tages for  the  heads  of  departments  are  clustered 
together  at  the  south  entrance,  near  which  are 
the  stables,  barns,  and  the  big  fire-proof  laundry. 
In  addition  to  the  patients'  cottages,  there  are 
many  other  buildings  which  represent  various 
activities:  a  nurses'  home  for  the  Training 
School,  an  infirmary  for  bed-ridden  patients,  a 
post  office,  a  colonial  brick  and  marble  library 
building,  a  reception  and  medical  building  with 
offices,  laboratory  and  X-ray  department,  a 
recreation  pavilion  for  amusements  and  enter- 
tainments, a  workshop  building  where  the  patients 
are  taught  fancy  leather  work,  bookbinding,  brass 
work  and  frame-making  as  a  recreation  and  as 
graded  exercise,  and  a  beautiful  stone  chapel. 

I  think  by  this  time  Fitz  Hallock  is  fully  appre- 
ciative of  the  development  the  institution  has 
attained,  and  now  that  neither  of  us  can  hunt 
foxes  any  more,  and  all  the  foxes  on  the  hill 
have  been  poisoned,  he  is  quite  reconciled  to  the 
spoiling  of  the  fox  runway. 

(172) 


XIV 

A  FEW  more  invalids  were  beginning  to  come  to 
the  Adirondacks,  and  while  at  work  in  starting 
the  Sanitarium  I  had  been  practising  more,  and 
had  read  everything  I  could  find  about  tuber- 
culosis. In  1882  Koch  published  in  Germany  his 
epoch-making  paper  on  "  The  Etiology  of  Tuber- 
culosis," and  I  read  in  my  medical  journals  one  or 
two  abstracts  of  the  long  and  painstaking  experi- 
mental work  which  had  led  him  to  the  startling 
conclusion  that  a  specific  germ,  the  "tubercle 
bacillus,"  was  the  cause  of  this  wide-spread  disease. 
There  was  every  reason  why  this  announcement 
of  Koch's  should  make  a  deep  impression  on  me. 
I  was  already  familiar  with  Tyndall's  and  Pasteur's 
work  on  the  origin  of  life,  and  Pasteur  had  only 
recently  asserted,  as  a  result  of  his  observations, 
not  only  that  all  life  came  from  preexisting  life, 
but  that  putrefaction  was  caused  by  living  germs, 
which  could  be  cultivated  and  studied  at  will. 
Lister  had  applied  Pasteur's  discovery  as  to 
putrefaction  to  surgery,  and  the  results  were  a 
startling  demonstration  of  the  truth  of  his  con- 
clusions. Lister  found  that  if  wounds  could  be 
kept  free  from  contamination  by  germs  by  the 

(173) 


use  of  carbolic  acid  they  would  heal  without  any 
suppuration.  I  also  had  read  a  statement  of 
Pasteur's  belief  that  all  infectious  diseases  came 
from  living  germs,  and  of  his  work  and  Koch's 
on  anthrax,  a  disease  of  sheep,  in  which  Koch  had 
demonstrated  the  germ  of  the  disease  and  culti- 
vated it  outside  of  the  body. 

This  time  in  medicine  was  the  dawn  of  the 
achievements  of  the  new  experimental  method — a 
method  which  was  casting  so  much  light  on  dark 
places — and  the  glamor  of  its  possibilities  in 
the  prevention  and  cure  of  disease  took  a  strong 
hold  on  my  imagination.  If  I  could  learn  to  grow 
the  tubercle  bacillus  outside  of  the  body  and  pro- 
duce tuberculosis  at  will  with  it  in  guinea-pigs, 
the  next  step  would  be  to  find  something  that 
would  kill  the  germ  in  the  living  animal.  If  an 
inoculated  guinea-pig  could  be  cured,  then  in 
all  probability  this  great  burden  of  sickness  could 
be  lifted  from  the  human  race.  Even  if  this 
proved  impossible,  much  could  be  learned  as  to 
the  best  method  of  preventing  the  disease,  and 
every  fact  that  could  be  acquired  about  this 
invisible  little  microbe  must  prove  of  immense 
importance  to  mankind. 

I  confided  all  this  to  my  friend,  Mr.  Lea,  and 
sorrowfully  told  him  as  I  could  not  read  German 
there  would  be  no  use  of  my  trying  to  obtain 
Koch's  paper.  He  promised  to  find  out  from  the 
doctors  in  Philadelphia  what  they  thought  about 
it — but   alas,     the     physicians    in    this   country 

(174) 


for  many  years  remained  calmly  indifferent  to 
Koch's  discovery,  or  ridiculed  it.  When  I  talked 
to  Dr.  Loomis  about  it  he  merely  said,  he  "didn't 
believe  much  in  'germs'."  For  several  years  he 
persisted  in  his  unbelief,  and  when  I  showed  him 
my  animals  which  had  died  of  inoculation  with 
my  cultures,  he  would  laugh  and  say  it  was  a 
cold  night  which  probably  killed  them.  Finally, 
however,  he  became  convinced,  and  when  a  new 
edition  of  his  Practice  of  Medicine  was  printed 
in  which  he  accepted  Koch's  theory,  he  sent  me 
a  copy,  on  the  inside  cover  of  which  he  had  written, 
"Read  the  article  on  Tuberculosis.  I  hope  you 
are  satisfied  now!" 

Though  Mr.  Lea  found  the  physicians  apathetic, 
he  was  such  a  good  friend  that  he  gave  me  one  of 
the  pleasantest  surprises  I  ever  had  in  my  life. 
He  had  a  very  full  translation  of  Dr.  Koch's 
famous  paper  made  in  English  for  me  and  presented 
it  to  me  at  Christmas.  Surely  I  never  had  a 
Christmas  present  that  meant  more  to  me  than 
that  big  hand-written  copy-book!  I  read  every 
word  of  it  over  and  over  again. 

Koch's  paper  on  "  The  Etiology  of  Tuberculosis" 
is  certainly  one  of  the  most,  if  not  the  most,  impor- 
tant medical  papers  ever  written,  and  a  model 
of  logic  in  the  application  of  the  new  experimental 
method  to  the  study  of  disease.  Every  step  was 
proved  over  and  over  again  before  the  next  step 
was  taken,  and  the  ingenuity  of  the  new  methods 
of  staining,   separating  and  growing  the  germs 

(175) 


read  like  a  fairy-tale  to  me.  It  took  Koch  three 
years  to  work  out  and  verify  his  deductions  before 
he  published  a  word,  but  every  word  of  his  paper 
stands  today  as  it  did  when  he  wrote  it,  and  the 
thirty-odd  years  that  followed  have  added  com- 
paratively little  to  his  great  achievement. 

I  became  strongly  convinced  of  the  soundness 
of  his  deductions  and  the  far-reaching  importance 
of  his  discovery,  and  intensely  anxious  to  test 
his  experimental  results.  But  I  knew  nothing  of 
bacteriology;  had  never  heard  the  name  before. 
I  lived  in  a  remote  region  which  made  access  to 
books,  scientific  apparatus,  or  other  physicians 
impossible.  I  had  my  microscope,  however,  and  I 
decided  the  next  time  I  went  to  New  York  to 
devote  all  my  efforts  to  learning  how  to  stain  and 
recognize  the  tubercle  bacillus  under  the  micro- 
scope. I  could  then  test  Koch's  conclusions  as 
to  the  presence  of  the  germ  in  the  patients'  secre- 
tions, and  could  plan  to  learn  how  to  cultivate  it 
outside  of  the  body  as  time  passed;  but  the  first 
thing  to  do  was  to  learn  to  find  and  recognize  the 
germ. 

I  was  so  intent  on  this  plan  that  during  my 
entire  visit  to  New  York  my  time  was  given  to 
its  accomplishment.  I  consulted  all  my  physician 
friends  as  to  who  could  teach  me  what  I  wanted 
to  learn,  but  none  of  them  knew  or  took  any 
interest.  I  heard  that  Dr.  George  Peabody,  whom 
I  knew,  was  acquainted  with  a  physician  who  had 
worked  in  Koch's  laboratory,  and  when  I  called 

(176) 


on  him  he  gave  me  his  card  and  told  me  to  go 
to  see  Dr.  T.  Mitchell  Prudden,  who  then  taught 
pathology  at  the  College  of  Physicians  and  Sur- 
geons. The  college  was  still  located  at  the  old  stand 
on  the  comer  of  Twenty-third  Street  and  Fourth 
Avenue,  and  as  I  went  up  the  steps  many  joyous 
memories  of  my  student  days  came  crowding  back 
to  me.  In  those  days  there  had  been  no  laboratory 
at  the  college,  but  since  then  pathology  had 
grown  in  importance  as  a  study,  and  the  trustees 
had  somehow  secured  a  large,  dark  room,  with  a 
high  ceiling,  next  to  the  drug-store  and  ice-cream 
saloon.  This  place  had  been  in  use  as  a  laboratory 
for  some  time,  and  a  more  gloomy,  ill-smelling 
place  can  hardly  be  imagined.  Dingy,  dust- 
covered  windows  let  in  a  little  feeble  light,  but 
there  was  no  provision  for  any  kind  of  ventilation. 
Every  kind  of  pathological  specimen,  representing 
every  deadly  disease  humanity  is  heir  to,  was 
constantly  brought  to  this  place,  and  after  having 
been  examined  was  not  always  thoroughly 
removed.  Students  came  to  make  microscopic 
sections  and  study  them  under  Dr.  Prudden 's 
direction  at  a  long,  low  table,  where  a  few  micro- 
scopes were  kept. 

The  most  curious  arrangement  was  the  sanctum 
of  the  Professor.  It  was  reached  by  climbing  up 
a  pair  of  steps  as  steep  as  any  ladder,  and  was  a 
small  room  perched  in  the  air  and  partitioned  off 
at  a  height  of  twelve  feet  or  more  from  the  labora- 
tory.   No  doubt  in  desperation  Dr.  Prudden  had 

(177) 


adopted  this  ingenious  method  of  obtaining  a  little 
privacy  for  the  serious  pathological  studies  he 
was  constantly  carrying  on  and  which  have  made 
his  name  famous,  but  it  certainly  was  a  queer 
outfit.  It  must  be  remembered,  however,  that 
the  scientific  side  of  medicine  and  the  experimental 
method  had  not  then  won  the  all-important  place 
they  now  occupy,  and  the  pioneers  had  of  neces- 
sity to  put  up  with  what  facilities  they  could 
secure  from  a  conservative  Board  of  Trustees  who 
no  doubt  thought  a  laboratory  an  unnecessary 
and  uncalled-for  innovation. 

With  my  card  of  introduction  from  Dr.  Peabody 
in  my  hand,  I  climbed  the  ladder  and  for  the  first 
time  met  Dr.  Prudden,  who  has  ever  since  been  a 
good  and  most  helpful  friend  to  me.  Though  his 
striking  personality  made  a  most  favorable  impres- 
sion on  me,  I  must  say  he  was  rather  short  with 
me.  He  no  doubt  was  constantly  annoyed  by 
all  sorts  of  applications.  Yes,  I  could  come  to 
the  laboratory  and  he  would  teach  me  how  to 
stain  the  tubercle  bacillus;  I  could  have  one  of 
the  microscopes  when  the  class  didn't  use  them; 
he  would  ask  Dr.  Hodenpyl  to  show  me  how  to 
make  the  stains:  and  that  was  all.  I  was  bowed 
down  through  the  trapdoor  in  the  floor,  and 
disappeared  down  the  ladder  to  the  main  labora- 
tory. 

I  got  a  microscope  and  a  place  at  the  long 
table.  I  was  given  a  specimen  said  to  contain  the 
tubercle  bacillus,  and  Dr.  Hodenpyl  showed  me 

(178) 


where  the  stains  were  and  wrote  some  simple  direc- 
tions for  each  step  to  be  taken.  Then  naturally 
enough  I  was  left  to  my  own  devices,  as  Dr. 
Prudden  was  constantly  too  busy  to  do  more 
than  ask  me  at  long  intervals  how  I  was  getting 
along.  I  had  never  done  section  staining  or 
any  similar  work,  and  I  certainly  was  a  tyro  at 
it.  During  the  first  three  days  I  worked  unremit- 
tingly, and  stained  my  fingers,  my  clothes,  even 
my  shoes;  and  if  I  stained  the  bacillus  I  decolor- 
ized the  specimen  either  too  much  or  too  little, 
so  that  the  germ  remained  invisible  under  the 
microscope.  Several  times  I  became  discouraged, 
and  had  it  not  been  for  a  certain  amount  of  natural 
persistence,  and  Dr.  Hodenpyl's  keen  sense  of 
humor  in  criticising  and  laughing  at  my  failures, 
I  should  have  fled  from  the  laboratory  and  never 
returned. 

At  first  Dr.  Prudden  took  little  notice  of  me, 
and  I  hardly  dared  climb  the  ladder  and  disturb 
him  in  his  elevated  sanctum;  but  after  several 
days  had  passed  and  he  still  saw  me  at  my  micro- 
scope he  asked  me  to  show  him  my  slides,  and,  no 
doubt  won  by  my  persistence,  he  sat  down  beside 
me  and  pointed  out  to  me  where  my  mistakes  had 
been.  At  last  I  succeeded,  and  remained  that 
day  until  late,  repeating  my  attempts  on  different 
specimens  until  I  was  quite  sure  I  could  bring 
out  the  bacillus  on  the  slides.  Like  the  pilot  who, 
when  asked  if  he  knew  the  harbor,  said  to  the 
captain  he  certainly  did,  for  he  had  been  on  every 

( 179  ) 


rock,  my  knowledge  had  not  been  acquired  easily, 
but  I  knew  thoroughly  what  to  avoid  doing  to 
insure  success;  and  now  I  could  return  to  Saranac 
Lake,  study  some  of  my  doubtful  cases  by  this 
test,  and  begin  to  repeat  Koch's  work  in  growing 
and  inoculating  the  germ. 

I  thanked  Dr.  Prudden  and  departed.  The 
next  time  I  saw  him  he  was  established  in  his 
spacious  laboratory  in  the  new  College  of  Physi- 
cians and  Surgeons  building  on  Fifty-ninth  Street, 
and  the  old  Twenty-third  Street  laboratory  and 
the  Professor's  sky  sanctum  were  but  grotesque 
memories  of  the  past — now  forgotten  mile-stones 
in  the  onward  progress  of  scientific  medicine. 
Dr.  Prudden 's  new  quarters  seemed  to  me  palatial, 
and  so  cordial  was  the  welcome  he  and  his  assis- 
tants, among  whom  was  my  good  friend  Dr. 
Hodenpyl,  always  gave  me  that  in  years  to  come, 
on  every  visit  I  made  to  New  York,  many  hours 
of  my  vacation  were  spent  there.  On  these  occa- 
sions Dr.  Prudden  taught  me  the  principles  of 
bacteriology,  and  in  after  years  ever  gave  me  his 
friendly  interest,  help  and  advice  in  my  work. 

Dr.  Prudden  and  his  associates  always  seemed 
glad  to  see  me,  but  it  was  not  till  misfortune 
overtook  me  that  I  was  made  to  realize  the  depth 
and  sincerity  of  their  feelings  toward  me.  In 
December,  1893,  when  my  house  and  little  labora- 
tory were  burned  to  the  ground,  I  was  lying  very 
ill  in  a  New  York  hotel.  My  house  and  labora- 
tory had  gone  and  the  outlook  for  getting  over 

(180) 


my  violent  illness  was,  I  knew,  rather  hopeless. 
As  I  lay  sick  and  discouraged  one  evening,  and 
my  wife  was  trying  to  help  me  pass  the  weary 
hours  of  misery  by  reading  to  me,  there  was  a 
knock  at  the  door  and  to  my  surprise  Dr.  Hoden- 
pyl's  tall  form,  carrying  a  large  mahogany  box 
in  one  hand,  approached  my  bed.  He  looked 
much  embarrassed,  as  he  always  did  when  doing 
someone  a  good  turn,  and  tried  to  explain  the 
object  of  his  visit  in  as  deprecatory  language  as 
possible.  "The  boys"  at  the  laboratory  had 
heard  of  the  burning  of  my  house;  they  knew 
from  Dr.  Baldwin  my  microscope  was  gone,  and 
that  the  first  thing  I  should  need  would  be  a 
microscope;  so  they  all  "chipped  in"  and  here 
was  the  microscope!  I  opened  the  case  with 
trembling  hands,  took  out  a  fine  instrument  of 
the  best  type  fitted  with  all  necessary  objectives 
and  adjuncts  complete,  and  in  the  box  the  follow- 
ing note  from  Dr.  Prudden  which  I  have  treasured, 
as  I  have  the  microscope,  ever  since: 

"My  dear  Doctor  Trudeau: 

"  We  men  at  the  laboratory  want  to  make  you 
a  Christmas  present,  and  we  are  so  eager  in  want- 
ing to  that  we  cannot  wait  till  the  proper  time. 

"I  don't  think  we  have  decided  whether  we 
want  to  do  this  most  because  we  appreciate  the 
good  work  you  are  always  doing,  in  our  line  and 
others,  or  because  you  have  had  more  pluck  than 
anybody  we  know,  or  because  you  have  been  so 

(181) 


often  helpful  to  us  and  made  us  always  glad  to 
have  you  here,  or  because — ^well,  the  fact  is,  old 
fellow,  we  like  you  and  want  you  to  know  it  and 
so  here  we  are  in  a  row,  bowing  our  early  Christ- 
mas greeting. " 

I  was  overcome,  and  unable  to  write  my  thanks 
or  express  what  was  in  my  heart,  and  Dr.  Hodenpyl 
to  a  certain  extent,  I  think,  shared  my  embarrass- 
ment. After  a  few  encouraging  remarks  about 
my  coming  to  the  laboratory  soon  and  trying  the 
new  microscope,  he  bowed  himself  out  of  the 
door  with  the  utmost  alacrity. 

Dr.  Hodenpyl,  through  much  overwork  and 
confinement,  broke  down  in  health  at  one  time 
and  had  to  give  up  work.  He  came  at  once  to 
Saranac  Lake,  and  a  six  months'  stay  so  restored 
him  that  he  was  able  to  resume  his  old  position 
at  the  college,  continuing  in  good  health  for 
many  years.  In  1909  he  was  engaged  in  cancer 
research  work,  when  he  made  some  observations 
which  raised  strong  hopes  even  in  his  ever- judi- 
cious and  critical  mind.  He  had  succeeded  in 
obtaining  striking  results  in  the  absorption  of 
cancerous  tumors  in  mice,  and  his  new  method 
promised  to  do  the  same  for  human  beings.  As 
he  began  to  see  evidences  of  success  in  sight  he 
threw  himself  with  all  the  devotion  of  his  earnest 
nature  and  clear  intellect  into  this  absorbing  work, 
and  his  friends  who  watched  him  began  to  fear 
he  would  break  down  under  the  strain.     Their 

(182) 


premonitions  proved  only  too  well  founded.  Early 
in  19 10  he  suddenly  developed  an  acute  septic 
pneumonia  and  died  in  a  few  days,  a  victim  to  his 
unremitting  zeal  and  devotion  to  science.  When 
he  died  I  lost  one  of  my  best  friends. 

The  following  summer  I  put  my  newly  acquired 
knowledge  about  the  bacillus  to  practical  use,  and 
I  think  the  demonstration  of  the  value  of  the 
bacillus  in  the  diagnosis  of  tuberculosis  must 
have  appealed  most  forcibly  to  such  a  clinician  as 
Dr.  Loomis,  and  hastened  his  long-deferred  accep- 
tance of  Koch's  discovery.  I  remember  the  first 
instance  of  this  kind  which  occurred  at  Paul 
Smith's  in  the  summer  of  1885.  A  young  college 
student  had  come  there  while  on  his  vacation  to 
consult  Dr.  Loomis  for  a  slight  but  persistent 
cough  and  some  loss  of  weight  and  strength.  Dr. 
Loomis  was  away  in  camp,  and  somehow  the 
young  man  asked  me  to  prescribe  for  his  cough. 
On  examination  of  the  chest  I  could  find  nothing 
positive,  but  I  was  so  keen  about  my  newly 
acquired  knowledge  in  staining  the  tubercle  bacil- 
lus that  I  subjected  every  patient  who  coughed 
to  this  test.  To  my  astonishment  I  found  the 
germ  present  in  the  expectoration,  and  told  the 
patient  he  had  tuberculosis  and  should  not  return 
to  college  in  the  fall,  but  go  West  and  lead  an 
outdoor  life  for  a  time.  Naturally  his  family 
was  much  alarmed,  for  he  was  a  big,  strong  man 
and  they  had  had  no  idea  there  would  be  anything 
serious  the  matter  with   him.     He   awaited   Dr. 

(183) 


Loomis's  return  at  Paul  Smith's  in  order  to  get 
his  opinion.  Dr.  Loomis,  who  of  course  attached 
no  special  importance  to  the  presence  of  the  bacil- 
lus, examined  him  thoroughly.  He  could  find 
nothing  definite  the  matter  with  his  lungs,  and 
said  he  could  see  no  reason  why  the  young  man 
should  not  continue  his  college  course,  and  so  he 
went  back  to  Harvard.  Four  months  later  one 
of  my  patients  at  Saranac  Lake  told  me  he  had 
just  heard  that  this  young  man  had  had  a  serious 
hemorrhage  in  the  class-room,  and  been  sent  at 
once  to  Colorado. 

It  is  curious  how  slow  physicians  were  in  this 
country  to  accept  Koch's  discovery  or  realize  its 
practical  value  in  the  detection  of  the  disease. 

As  late  as  in  1890,  a  young  Columbia  College 
rowing  man  came  to  Paul  Smith's  for  a  trouble- 
some cough  he  could  not  throw  off,  and  I  detected 
the  bacillus  on  the  first  examination  and  told 
him  he  had  tuberculosis.  He  smiled  and  said  I 
must  be  mistaken,  for  he  had  rowed  a  good  race 
on  the  crew  that  spring,  and  had  just  been  insured 
by  two  of  the  best  insurance  companies  in  New 
York  for  a  large  sum.  I  made  another  examina- 
tion, found  the  germ  and  reiterated  my  opinion. 
This  brought  a  letter  from  one  of  the  insurance 
companies  asking  me  on  what  I  based  my  diag- 
nosis. I  answered  that  the  symptoms  were  very 
suspicious,  but  that  the  presence  of  the  bacillus, 
to  my  mind,  was  irrefutable  evidence  of  the 
presence  of  a  tuberculous  process  as  their  cause.   An 

(184) 


interval  followed,  then  a  very  nice  note  came  from 
the  insurance  company  asking  me  whether,  if  they 
sent  up  one  of  their  doctors,  I  would  show  him  my 
method  of  detecting  the  bacillus  and  making  such 
a  diagnosis.  The  doctor  arrived:  I  showed  him 
how  to  find  the  bacillus  and  he  departed  the  next 
day.  Within  a  couple  of  days  I  received  a  nice 
note  of  thanks  from  the  insurance  company  and 
a  check  for  one  hundred  dollars.  The  patient 
died  several  years  later  of  tuberculosis. 

I  had  many  opportunities  to  convince  the 
unbelieving.  Dr.  D'Avignon  had  practised  medi- 
cine and  surgery  many  years  at  Ausable  Forks, 
and  was  called  upon  in  consultation  and  to 
operate  all  over  the  mountains.  He  was  a  shrewd, 
resourceful  and  skilful  surgeon,  and  thoroughly 
interested  in  his  profession.  On  one  of  his  visits 
to  Saranac  Lake  he  called  on  me  and  found  me  in 
the  little  laboratory.  He  asked  me  about  "the 
germs,"  in  which  he  had  as  yet  little  faith;  but 
he  said,  "Will  you  take  the  trouble  to  convince 
me?"  I  asked  him  what  test  he  required,  and  he 
said,  "I  will  send  you  five  numbered  samples, 
and  if  you  can  tell  me  which  ones  came  from  tuber- 
culosis cases  and  which  ones  did  not,  I  will  believe 
it  all."  I  agreed,  and  he  left,  evidently  thinking 
he  had  me  cornered. 

The  samples  came,  with  only  a  number  on  each 
one,  and  I  reported  on  them  at  once.  Three  con- 
tained bacilli  and  I  wrote  him  the  result  and  gave 
him  the  numbers.    A  more  convinced  and  enthu- 

(185) 


siastic  man  than  he  was  when  he  made  his  next 
visit  I  never  saw.  He  had  lost  his  contempt  for 
'*  germs, "  and  the  Httle  ironical  smile  he  wore 
on  his  last  visit  as  he  looked  at  my  culture  tubes 
had  disappeared.  After  that  when  he  had  doubt- 
ful cases  he  often  sent  me  the  samples  for  examina- 
tion, and  the  results  left  his  new  faith  unshaken. 

We  had  been  at  Mrs.  Evans's  cottage  since  1876, 
and  had  boarded  with  her  for  seven  years  when  I 
decided  that,  as  it  began  to  look  as  though  we 
might  have  to  live  in  Saranac  Lake  for  some  time, 
I  would  build  a  small  cottage  and  we  could  have 
a  home  of  our  own.  Mr.  Lea  had  just  put  up  a 
most  comfortable  house  for  his  wife  and  daughter, 
and  I  bought  an  acre  of  ground  near  the  Episcopal 
Church  and  opposite  Mr.  Lea's  house.  During 
the  summer  I  built  a  little  Queen  Anne  cottage 
and  a  small  stable,  and  we  moved  in  the  fall  of 
1883.  Our  children,  Chatte  and  Ned,  were  grow- 
ing, and  we  had  to  have  a  governess  or  a  tutor 
to  teach  them,  and  all  this  made  a  home  of  our 
own  much  more  satisfactory. 

When  I  returned  from  New  York  with  my 
newly  acquired  knowledge  as  to  how  to  detect 
the  tubercle  bacillus,  I  began  at  once  to  equip 
my  small  office  in  the  Queen  Anne  cottage — a 
room  twelve  by  eight  feet,  having  two  small 
closets  at  one  end — with  what  simple  apparatus 
I  could  devise  and  procure.  In  this  little  room  I 
at  first  kept  my  microscope  and  stains  and  made 
my  numerous  examinations  of  the  secretions  of 

(186) 


patients,  inoculated  my  guinea-pigs,  and  began 
my  attempts  at  making  blood-serum  tubes.  My 
little  home-made  thermostat  was  placed  in  one 
of  the  small  closets,  and  it  was  there  that  I 
first  obtained  a  pure  culture  of  the  tubercle 
bacillus. 

These  quarters  were  so  cramped,  however,  that 
I  soon  built  a  little  addition  off  my  office,  and  this 
became  the  laboratory  in  which  I  worked  until 
the  house  was  destroyed  in  1893  by  fire  originating 
from  my  little  thermostat.  As  I  knew  nothing 
about  the  architectural  requirements  of  a  sana- 
torium, so  I  knew  nothing  about  the  requirements 
of  a  laboratory;  but  had  the  simple  apparatus, 
which  consisted  of  a  dry  sterilizer  and  a  ridiculous 
little  thermostat,  made  in  the  village,  and  the 
glassware  came  from  New  York. 

As  I  can  remember  today  just  how  the  Adiron- 
dack Cottage  Sanitarium  looked  when  it  first 
began  its  humble  career,  I  can  see  equally  clearly 
the  room  opening  from  my  little  office,  which  was 
really  the  beginning  of  the  Saranac  Laboratory 
for  the  Study  of  Tuberculosis.  One  side  of  this 
room  was  occupied  by  a  long,  high,  stationary 
shelf-table  set  against  the  wall  under  three  little 
half-windows,  with  shelves  underneath  the  table 
for  glassware,  a  dry  and  a  steam  sterilizer,  an  oil 
stove,  etc.  A  little  home-made  thermostat,  heated 
by  a  minute  kerosene  lamp,  without  any  regulat- 
ing apparatus,  stood  on  a  bracket-shelf  next  to 
a  sink  for  washing  glassware.     This  sink  was  as 

( 187 ) 


primitive  as  the  thermostat,  as  there  was  no  run- 
ning water  in  Saranac  Lake  in  those  days.  At  one 
end  on  a  broad  shelf  stood  a  big  pail  with  a  dipper 
and  this  supplied  the  water  (there  was  of  course  no 
hot  water),  and  the  waste  from  the  sink  was  carried 
off  by  a  leaden  pipe  which  led  to  a  big  pail  on  the 
floor,  this  pail  being  emptied  out  of  doors  when  dan- 
ger of  its  overflow  made  this  imperatively  necessary. 
At  the  other  window  was  a  small  table  with  my  mi- 
croscope on  it,  some  bottles  of  stains,  and  slides  in 
boxes.  By  the  side  of  this  stood  a  shelf  of  books, 
on  top  of  which  was  always  Mr.  Lea's  precious 
translation  of  Koch's  paper,  to  which  the  Saranac 
Laboratory  has  owed  its  existence. 

The  "Professor's"  equipment  was  as  meagre  as 
that  of  the  laboratory,  and  consisted  only  of 
what  he  had  learned  from  Koch's  paper  and  the 
laboriously  won  knowledge  he  had  just  acquired 
from  Dr.  Prudden  as  to  staining  the  tubercle 
bacillus.  As  I  have  said  before,  I  must  have  been 
an  optimist,  for  I  was  much  pleased  with  my 
little  laboratory,  and  could  see  nothing  but  great 
achievements  ahead. 

With  this  humble  outfit  I  began  with  much 
enthusiasm,  in  my  imagination,  the  conquest  of 
the  tubercle  bacillus,  and  if  I  have  never  come 
"within  sight  of  the  castles  of  my  dreams,"  I 
at  least  have  made  some  progress  along  the  road 
leading  to  them  and  started  others  in  the  same 
direction,  for  I  was,  as  far  as  I  can  ascertain,  the 
first   in   this   country   to   cultivate   the   tubercle 

(188) 


< 


2  o 

?  ^ 

I  u. 

I-  -" 

0)  UJ 

il  ^- 

UJ  o 

I 


bacillus  and  confirm  Koch's  brilliant  discovery. 
From  the  ashes  of  the  little  room  has  sprung  the 
Saranac  Laboratory  for  the  Study  of  Tuberculosis, 
where  for  twenty  years  the  work  of  my  associates 
has  steadily  advanced  our  scientific  knowledge  of 
tuberculosis,  and  will,  I  hope,  continue  to  do  so 
for  many  years  to  come. 

Even  in  procuring  such  simple  apparatus  as 
I  needed  I  met  with  many  difiiculties.  The  first 
question  to  be  solved  was  to  get  a  thermostat  in 
which  the  high  temperature  needed  for  the  growth 
of  the  germs  could  be  constantly  maintained.  I 
had  seen  only  one  thermostat  for  growing  bacteria, 
and  that  was  in  Dr.  Prudden's  new  laboratory. 
This  was  an  imported  instrument  and  had  a  self- 
regulating  apparatus — a  column  of  mercury  turn- 
ing the  gas  on  or  cutting  it  off,  as  the  heat  fell  or 
rose  beyond  the  required  temperature.  In  Sarsmac 
Lake  in  those  days,  not  only  had  we  no  gas  to 
heat  the  thermostat,  but  we  had  no  coal  to  keep 
up  the  temperature  of  the  room.  At  night  the 
fire  in  the  wood  stove  would  go  out,  and  on  very 
cold  nights  everything  in  the  room  would  freeze 
hard.  I  had  the  tinsmith  at  the  hardware  store 
send  for  some  sheets  of  copper  and  make  a  thermo- 
stat, which  consisted  merely  of  a  small  copper 
box  about  eight  inches  square  inside  of  a  larger 
copper  box,  the  space  between  the  two  being  filled 
with  water  heated  from  beneath  by  a  minute 
kerosene  lamp.  A  tube  allowed  a  large  thermom- 
eter to  be  placed  in  the  inner  box,  and  its  readings 

(189) 


to  be  taken  outside  as  it  emerged  through  a 
perforated  cork  at  the  top  of  the  apparatus. 

I  soon  found  this  answered  fairly  well  in  the  day- 
time, when  the  temperature  of  the  room  varied 
little,  but  at  night  when  the  fire  in  the  wood  stove 
went  out  the  violent  loss  of  heat  in  the  room  soon 
caused  a  corresponding  fall  in  the  little  apparatus. 
To  obviate  this  I  put  the  thermostat  in  three  or 
four  wooden  boxes,  each  a  little  larger  than  the 
other,  and  packed  the  space  between  these  with 
wool  and  sawdust.  These  boxes  all  had  doors, 
and  by  opening  and  shutting  these,  according  to 
the  temperature  outside  of  the  house,  I  could 
maintain  a  fairly  regular  heat  in  the  inner  thermo- 
stat. On  cold  nights  when  the  thermometer 
was  below  zero  I  would  close  all  the  doors,  or  leave 
one  or  two  open,  according  to  the  outside  tem- 
perature. After  some  practise  I  grew  quite  expert 
in  keeping  my  thermostat  near  the  right  heat, 
and  indeed,  it  was  with  this  little  home-made 
apparatus  that  I  first  succeeded  in  growing  the 
germ  in  pure  cultures  outside  of  the  body. 

Later  I  bought  in  New  York  a  more  pretentious, 
imported  instrument,  one  which  was  heated  by 
kerosene,  and  had  a  rubber  diaphragm  which 
bulged  more  or  less  as  the  imprisoned  water  in 
the  thermostat  grew  hotter  or  colder.  By  operat- 
ing through  a  set  of  levers  these  variations  pushed 
a  brass  roller  back  and  forth  over  the  long  flame 
of  the  kerosene  lamp,  increasing  or  decreasing 
the  burning  surface  and  the  heat  automatically. 

(190) 


I  mention  this,  because  it  was  this  ingenious 
apparatus  which  went  wrong  one  night  some  years 
later,  the  flame  jumped  behind  the  roller,  and 
then  grew  bigger  and  hotter  until  it  set  fire  to  the 
wooden  shelf,  and  at  three  o'clock  one  morning 
burned  my  house  and  laboratory  to  the  ground. 

In  1884  Mr.  George  Cooper  was  sent  by  Dr. 
Loomis  to  Saranac  Lake  and  became  a  patient  of 
mine.  Mr.  Cooper  and  his  three  sisters  belonged 
to  the  old  New  York  family  of  that  name,  were 
charming  people,  and  a  great  addition  to  our 
colony.  A  strong  friendship  developed  between 
us  very  soon.  He  was  quite  ill  when  he  came  and 
his  sisters  were  perfectly  devoted  to  him,  so  they 
cheerfully  gave  up  their  beautiful  town  house  on 
Twenty-first  Street,  and  at  first  boarded  at  a 
nice  cottage  next  to  Mrs.  Evans's,  and  afterwards 
hired  the  best  house  they  could  procure  and  kept 
house.  In  the  spring  and  fall  they  would  return 
home,  but  the  summers  were  spent  in  their  camp 
at  Paul  Smith's  and  the  winters  in  Saranac  Lake, 
They  took  a  deep  interest  in  all  my  work,  and 
were  ever  ready  to  help  me  with  generous  sub- 
scriptions for  any  object  which  appealed  to  them. 
Mr.  Cooper  took  a  great  interest  in  the  Sanitarium 
and  in  my  little  laboratory  room. 


(191) 


XV 

WHILE  I  was  starting  my  little  laboratory 
and  doing  experiments  all  through  the  late 
eighties,  the  Sanitarium  was  making  little  progress 
in  its  struggle  for  existence,  but  nevertheless  was 
growing.  The  Main  Building  had  been  finished 
and  enlarged,  and  in  1 886-1 887  two  cottages  were 
built;  a  double  one,  given  by  Miss  Ella  Reed 
and  Miss  Folger,  and  a  single  one — that  is,  a 
cottage  for  two  patients — by  Miss  Caroline  Stokes. 
In  1 887-1888  two  other  cottages,  each  for  four 
patients,  were  given,  one  by  Mr.  C.  M.  Lea  and 
the  other  by  Mr.  George  Cooper. 

I  was  having  m£iny  difficulties  to  contend  with. 
My  first  serious  one  was  that  I  had  no  water  sup- 
ply, and  in  1886  Mr.  Cooper  bought  sixteen  acres 
of  land  on  which  was  a  fine  spring,  and  gave  the 
land  to  the  Sanitarium.  This  answered  for  drink- 
ing water,  but  as  there  was  no  coal  and  we  had  no 
running  water,  the  drainage  problem  was  a  con- 
stant source  of  annoyance  to  me  and  complaint 
from  the  patients.  Things  did  not  go  well, 
and  I  was  much  discouraged.  No  one  seemed 
interested  in  the  struggling  little  institution  but 
my  immediate  friends,  and  I  fancied  they  showed 

(193) 


interest  only  to  encourage  me.  I  had  no  definite 
idea  just  what  to  do  and  very  little  money  with 
which  to  do  anything.  I  could  not  afford  a  doctor 
at  the  institution,  and  had  to  do  the  medical  work 
myself,  driving  in  summer  fourteen  miles  from 
Paul  Smith's  and  fourteen  miles  back  at  each  visit. 
I  had  no  nurse  nor  anyone  to  direct  the  patients 
and  encourage  them.  When  they  were  taken 
acutely  ill  with  complications  I  had  no  infirmary 
to  send  them  to,  and  no  one  to  carry  their  meals 
and  nurse  them  in  their  cottages.  I  used  to  hire 
lumbermen  and  guides  to  care  for  the  bed-ridden 
men  patients,  and  any  old  woman  I  could  get  to 
look  after  the  women,  and  these  were  very  expen- 
sive and  not  very  efficient  help.  In  cases  of  severe 
hemorrhage  these  improvised  nurses  would  become 
panic-stricken  and  escape  from  the  sick-room,- 
and  often  no  amount  of  eloquence  on  my  part 
would  induce  them  to  return.  On  the  rare  occa- 
sions when  anybody  died  I  had  to  come  over  and 
take  charge  of  the  situation  in  person,  as  the 
entire  establishment  was  thrown  into  such  a  panic 
that  I  feared  they  would  all  desert  in  a  body.  The 
usual  complaints  about  the  food  were  a  chronic 
annoyance,  and  difficulties  about  employees  were 
constant.  These  were  dark  days;  days  when  I 
longed  for  dynamite  or  an  earthquake  as  the 
shortest  way  out  of  all  my  troubles!  I  had  to 
go  on,  however,  and  a  good  hunt  would  make 
me  forget  all  my  troubles  for  a  time. 

Mr.  Norton  and  his  family  were  in  charge  of 

(194) 


the  Sanitarium  until  the  fall  of  1888,  when  they 
retired  to  a  little  home  near  Saranac  Lake  and 
Mrs.  Julia  A.  Miller  became  Superintendent. 
The  institution  was  growing  less  like  a  big  family, 
and  Mrs.  Miller  had  run  one  of  the  most  successful 
boarding  houses  for  invalids  in  town,  so  that  she 
was  well  fitted  for  her  duties.  She  turned  out  to 
be  a  great  comfort  and  most  reliable  and  efficient 
during  those  trying  years  of  the  Sanitarium's 
existence.  She  resigned  in  1903,  and  died  at 
her  home  in  Saranac  Lake  in  June,  1913. 

I  had  another  and  unexpected  helper  at  this 
time — Mr.  Frank  IngersoU,  a  medical  student. 
Though  very  ill,  he  at  once  took  in  the  situation 
and  filled  a  big  place  at  the  Sanitarium.  The 
patients  looked  upon  him  as  a  doctor,  and  no  one 
could  have  taken  a  more  devoted  or  unselfish 
interest  in  everything  connected  with  the  in- 
stitution. He  taught  me  the  first  great  lesson 
I  learned  in  the  conquest  of  Fate  by  acquies- 
cence. Alone  in  the  world,  among  strangers, 
poor,  stricken  with  what  he  knew  to  be  a  fatal 
disease,  in  constant  physical  weakness  and  suffer- 
ing, he  never  complained,  and  forgot  himself  in 
helping  others.  Always  cheerful,  always  helpful, 
he  worked  uncomplainingly  until  his  sudden  death 
from  hemorrhage.  His  example  taught  me  a 
great  lesson,  and  was  a  great  stimulus  to  me  at 
this  discouraging  time.  If  he  was  not  discouraged, 
why  should  I  be?  I  shall  ever  cherish  his  memory. 
I  only  wish  he  could  see  the  Sanitarium  now;  but 

(195) 


he  has  had  a  full  share  in  whatever  it  has  accom- 
plished and  in  what  it  has  grown  to  be. 

Many  years  later — about  1901 — ^while  Dr. 
Lawrason  Brown  was  resident  physician  at  the 
Sanitarium,  another  invalid  served  the  institution 
with  much  the  same  spirit  as  Ingersoll.  Ernest 
Pope,  an  educated  Englishman  and  an  expert  statis- 
tician, was  a  very  sick  man  when  we  decided  to 
take  him  and  let  him  earn  his  board  at  the  Sani- 
tarium by  helping  Dr.  Brown  with  his  statistical 
work  of  the  cases.  He  asked  for  nothing  but  his 
board  and  some  tobacco  for  his  pipe,  and  we  gave 
him  at  his  request  a  little  tent-shack  to  live  in. 
A  happier,  cheerier  and  more  contented  individual 
would  have  been  hard  to  find.  Poor,  alone, 
stricken  with  mortal  disease,  he  labored  cheerily 
and  helpfully  to  all  about  him  for  several  years, 
when  the  end  came  suddenly.  He  was  another 
excellent  example  of  the  conquest  of  Fate  by 
acquiescence. 

With  Mrs.  Miller  and  Ingersoll  at  the  Sani- 
tarium things  began  to  look  up  and  run  more 
smoothly.  I  was  doing  more  practice  all  the 
time  and  able  to  interest  more  people,  and  get 
some  of  my  patients  and  friends  to  give  us  cottages 
from  time  to  time. 

In  1888  the  first  fair  was  held  at  Saranac  Inn 
for  the  Sanitarium,  and,  thanks  to  the  continued 
interest  and  devotion  of  many  friends  at  the  Inn, 
where  Mr.  Riddle  brought  the  needs  of  the  institu- 
tion to  the  attention  of  the  generously  inclined 

(196) 


*1^;. 


guests,  fairs  have  been  held  there  regularly. 
When  for  any  reason  this  has  been  impossible,  a 
substantial  amount  has  always  been  raised  from 
tableaux,  entertainments,  or  subscriptions. 

The  Sanitarium  never  has  had  any  organized 
board  of  lady  managers,  any  regular  subscription 
list,  or  any  auxiliaries  pledged  to  raise  money 
for  it.  For  twenty-five  years  the  two  fairs  at 
Paul  Smith's  and  Saranac  Inn  were  the  main 
sources  of  support  for  the  work  of  the  institution, 
in  addition  to  what  I  could  raise  by  personal 
appeal. 

As  more  money  began  to  come  in  much  progress 
was  made  from  1888  to  1890.  Mrs.  John  W. 
Mintum,  Mr.  George  Dodge  and  Mr.  Nathan 
Straus  each  gave  a  new  cottage,  and  a  Free  Bed 
Fund  and  an  Endowment  Fund  were  started. 

The  charge  for  board  has  always  been  the  same 
for  everybody.  It  was  five  dollars  a  week  in  1885 
and,  owing  to  the  increasing  cost  of  living,  the 
more  exacting  requirements  demanded  by  the 
development  of  the  methods  of  treatment,  as  well 
as  the  improvement  in  accommodations  given 
each  patient,  it  rose  gradually  to  the  present  rate 
of  eight  dollars  a  week.  The  deficit  per  week  on 
each  patient  increased  also,  and  rose  gradually 
from  two  dollars  a  week  in  the  earlier  days  to 
between  three  dollars  and  a  half  to  four  dollars 
a  week  at  the  present  time.  This  has  given  a 
deficit  of  from  $12,000  to  $29,000  each  year  to 
be  met  out  of  contributions  to  the  General  Fund. 

(197) 


I  found,  however,  that  in  many  instances,  in 
spite  of  the  low  price  charged  for  board,  some  of 
the  patients  would  become  stranded  financially 
before  they  left  the  institution.  To  meet  this 
difficulty  in  specially  urgent  cases,  I  started  in 
1888  a  Free  Bed  Fund,  which  I  could  draw  on  to 
meet  for  a  short  time  the  expenses  of  the  stranded 
patients,  and  raised  six  hundred  and  forty  dollars 
for  the  purpose  that  year.  This  was  the  beginning 
of  the  Free  Bed  Fund,  which  for  twenty-five 
years  has  helped  so  many  who  otherwise  could 
not  have  had  the  advantages  of  a  stay  at  the 
Sanitarium.  Mr.  Charles  M.  Lea  has  been  Treas- 
urer of  the  fund  ever  since  it  originated;  he,  his 
mother  and  his  sister  have  taken  a  special  interest 
in  its  work  and  contributed  freely  each  year  to 
its  support. 

Mr.  Riddle's  conservative  influence  induced 
me  also  to  start  an  Endowment  Fund  at  this  time. 
I  secured  one  thousand  and  ninety  dollars  in  cash 
for  this  purpose.  This  was  the  beginning  of  the 
Endowment  Fund. 

As  it  began  to  grow  larger  I  tried  to  get  some- 
one to  take  the  thankless  position  of  Treasurer  of 
this  Endowment  Fund,  but  I  could  find  no  one. 
Finally  I  went  to  Mr.  Harriman  and  asked  him 
to  help  me.  He  said  he  would  go  around  with 
me  to  see  Mr.  Stephen  Baker,  at  the  Bank  of  the 
Manhattan  Company,  and  I  could  ask  him  myself. 
Mr.  Baker  was  interested,  but  said  he  really  had 
more  on  hand  than  he  could  attend  to  and  I  must 

( 198  ) 


excuse  him.  I  told  him  I  only  wanted  to  get 
an  endowment  fund  of  fifty  thousand  dollars, 
and  when  that  amount  was  reached  he  could 
turn  it  over  to  someone  else,  and  finally  he  con- 
sented. He  has  administered  the  Endowment 
Fund  now  for  about  twenty  years,  and  under  his 
skilful  management  it  has  grown,  in  a  great 
measure  by  accretion,  to  more  than  ten  times 
the  amount  I  at  first  aimed  to  reach.  Mr. 
Baker  seems  undismayed  by  his  increased 
burden,  which  he  bears  as  cheerfully  and  effi- 
ciently as  he  does  his  share  as  trustee  in  the 
management  of  the  affairs  of  the  Sanitarium. 


(199) 


XVI 

IN  the  fall  of  1885,  as  soon  as  I  had  equipped 
my  little  laboratory-room,  I  began  to  work.  At 
first  my  knowledge  was  limited  to  the  detection  of 
the  tubercle  bacillus  in  the  secretions  of  patients, 
and  my  observations  to  verifying  Koch's  claim 
that  this  bacillus  was  the  cause  of  the  disease  and 
was  always  found  when  tuberculosis  was  present. 
I  made  examinations  of  all  my  cases,  and  as  a 
result  found  only  one  patient  in  whom,  while  the 
symptoms  of  consumption  of  the  lungs  were 
present,  I  could  never  detect  the  bacillus.  I  made 
a  study  of  this  case  and  proved  that  it  could  not 
be  tuberculosis,  as  the  expectoration  would  not 
kill  animals,  while  expectorated  matter  which 
contained  tubercle  bacilli  always  produced  gen- 
eralized tuberculosis  in  the  guinea-pigs.  I  pub- 
lished this  study  under  the  title  of  "An  Experi- 
mental Research  upon  the  Infectiousness  of  Non- 
bacillary  Phthisis,"  in  The  American  Journal  of 
the  Medical  Sciences  for  October,  1885,  and  this 
was  my  first  publication  from  my  little  laboratory 
room.  I  am  afraid  I  have  been  guilty  of  many 
others  since! 

The  thing  I  craved  to  do,  however,  was  to  suc- 

(201) 


ceed  in  cultivating  the  tubercle  bacillus  outside 
of  the  body  and  then  produce  the  disease  with  it 
in  animals.  It  was  the  early  winter  of  1885  when 
I  attacked  this  problem  with  great  earnestness. 
I  had  learned  from  Dr.  Prudden  how  to  make 
artificial  media  —  beef  gelatin,  beef  agar  and 
other  media — but  the  first  growth  of  the  tubercle 
bacillus  direct  from  animal  tissue  I  knew  could 
be  obtained  only  on  solidified  blood  serum,  and 
then  with  difficulty.  I  bought  a  small  sheep  for 
three  dollars  and  a  half,  and  from  the  sacrifice 
of  this  animal  I  procured  the  required  amount  of 
blood,  which,  thanks  to  the  pure  air  and  the  snow 
on  the  ground,  remained  tolerably  free  from  con- 
tamination and  was  transferred  at  once  to  the 
ice-box  to  coagulate.  I  am  afraid  my  associates 
at  the  laboratory  today  would  hardly  consider 
the  technique  I  then  employed  up  to  date,  but 
after  many  accidents  I  succeeded  in  getting  some 
fair  slants  of  blood  serum  in  tubes. 

I  made  plants  on  this  blood  serum  from  a  tuber- 
culous gland  removed  from  one  of  my  inoculated 
guinea-pigs,  and  put  all  the  tubes  in  my  home- 
made thermostat.  For  the  next  two  weeks  I 
watched  the  temperature  of  my  absurd  little 
oven  with  jealous  care,  and  I  remember  one  very 
cold  night  getting  up  in  the  night  and  going  down 
stairs  to  look  at  the  temperature.  Many  of  the 
tubes  turned  out  at  once  to  be  contaminated, 
and  a  variety  of  growths  appeared  on  them; 
but  after  ten  days  I  still  had  four  tubes  free  from 

(202) 


contamination  and  these  looked  much  as  when 
I  first  put  them  in  the  incubator.  On  the  eigh- 
teenth day  I  thought  I  detected  a  little  growth 
in  the  corner  of  one  of  these.  With  every  precau- 
tion against  contamination,  with  my  platinum 
spade  I  removed  a  little  of  the  suspected  growth 
and  rubbed  it  on  a  couple  of  clean  slides,  dried 
it  and  stained  it.  My  first  intimation  of  success 
was  when  one  or  two  large  masses  on  the  slide 
refused  to  decolorize  when  treated  with  the  acid. 
I  washed  the  slide,  put  it  under  the  microscope, 
and  to  my  intense  joy  I  saw  nothing  but  well- 
stained  culture  masses  and  a  few  detached  tubercle 
bacilli.  I  at  once  planted  some  fresh  tubes  from 
the  one  I  had  examined,  and  I  knew  now  I  had 
pure  cultures  to  work  with.  This  little  scum  on 
the  serum  was  consumption  in  a  tangible  form. 
With  it  I  could  inoculate  animals  and  try  experi- 
ments to  destroy  the  germ. 

The  world  has  been  trying  to  do  for  thirty 
years  what  I  had  in  view  at  that  time,  and  is 
still  as  far  from  success  as  I  was  then;  but  to 
me  the  future  was  full  of  promise.  As  soon  as 
I  had  made  some  subcultures  I  sent  a  tube  off 
to  Dr.  Prudden,  as  I  knew  he  would  be  glad  to 
show  the  students  this  recently  discovered  germ 
which  kills  one  in  seven  of  the  human  race.  I 
also  later  sent  a  tube  to  Dr.  William  H.  Welch 
at  the  Johns  Hopkins  Medical  School,  as  he  had 
always  befriended  me  and  helped  me  with  his 
advice,  and   I   continued   to  send   them  to  both 

(203) 


these  laboratories  whenever  they  applied  for 
them. 

As  soon  as  I  had  pure  cultures  I  began  to 
inoculate  rabbits  and  guinea-pigs,  and  started 
some  experiments  to  try  to  kill  the  germ  in  their 
tissues  by  the  injection  of  various  germicides, 
such  as  creosote,  carbolic  acid,  and  other  sub- 
stances known  to  destroy  germs.  These  experi- 
ments of  mine  all  failed,  and  I  found,  as  I  expressed 
it  to  the  students  one  day  at  the  College,  that 
"the  tubercle  bacillus  bore  cheerfully  a  degree 
of  medication  which  proved  fatal  to  its  host!" 

One  of  my  great  problems  was  to  keep  my 
guinea-pigs  alive  in  winter.  The  rabbits  stand 
the  cold  very  well,  but  the  guinea-pigs  require 
constantly  a  warm  place  to  live  in.  As  we  had 
no  coal,  and  in  winter  it  froze  in  every  house  in 
Saranac  Lake  when  the  mercury  fell  below  zero 
at  night,  it  became  evident  I  should  have  to  keep 
my  guinea-pigs,  as  I  did  my  potatoes,  below 
ground.  I  had  a  big  hole  dug  in  my  yard,  and 
its  imprint  is  still  visible  near  where  the  Sara- 
nac Laboratory  now  stands.  I  put  a  kerosene 
lamp  in  this  little  cellar  to  heat  it,  and  kept  my 
guinea-pigs  in  boxes  on  wooden  shelves  in  this 
place.  This,  though  most  inconvenient  when 
the  animals  had  to  be  handled  or  treated,  turned 
out  to  answer  fairly  well.  The  rabbits  I  kept 
in  warm  hutches  outside. 

As  I  was  busy  all  this  time  working  out  the 
application  of  the  new  method  of  treatment  in 

(204) 


pulmonary  tuberculosis  on  patients  at  the  Sani- 
tarium, I  naturally  began  to  wonder,  if  tuberculosis 
was  a  germ  disease  and  the  germs  had  already 
gained  access  to  the  body,  how  a  change  of  climate, 
rest,  fresh  air  and  food  could  influence  the  dis- 
ease. In  seeking  an  experimental  answer  to  this 
question  I  decided  on  the  following  experiment: 

Lot  I,  of  five  rabbits,  were  inoculated  with 
pure  cultures  and  put  under  the  best  surroundings 
of  light,  food  and  air  attainable. 

Lot  2,  of  five  rabbits,  inoculated  at  the  same 
time  and  in  the  same  way,  were  put  under  the 
worst  conditions  of  environment  I  could  devise: 
and 

Lot  3,  of  five  rabbits,  were  put  under  similar 
bad  conditions  without  being  inoculated. 

Lot  I,  I  turned  loose  on  a  little  island  in  front 
of  my  camp  at  Paul  Smith's,  where  they  ran  wild 
all  summer  in  the  fresh  air  and  sunshine,  and  were 
provided  with  abundant  food.  Lot  2  and  Lot  3 
were  put  in  a  dark,  damp  place  where  the  air 
was  bad,  confined  in  a  small  box  and  fed  insuffi- 
ciently. The  results  showed  that  of  the  rabbits 
allowed  to  run  wild  under  good  conditions,  all, 
with  one  exception,  recovered.  Of  Lot  2,  the 
same  as  Lot  i,  but  put  in  unfavorable  surround- 
ings, four  rabbits  died  within  three  months  and 
the  organs  showed  extensive  tuberculosis.  Lot  3, 
uninoculated  animals,  were  then  killed  and,  though 
emaciated,  they  showed  no  tuberculous  disease. 

This   showed   me   conclusively   that   bad    sur- 

(205) 


roundings  of  themselves  could  not  produce  tuber- 
culosis, and  that  when  once  the  germs  had  gained 
access  to  the  body  the  course  of  the  disease  was 
greatly  influenced  by  a  favorable  or  an  unfavor- 
able environment.  The  essence  of  sanitorium 
treatment  was  a  favorable  environment  so  far 
as  climate,  fresh  air,  food,  and  the  regulation  of 
the  patient's  habits  were  concerned,  and  I  felt 
greatly  encouraged  as  to  the  soundness  of  the 
method  of  treatment  the  Sanitarium  represented, 
even  though  it  did  not  aim  directly  at  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  germ. 

As  we  look  back  thirty  years  it  is  curious  to 
see  how  the  many  widely  heralded  specific  methods 
aimed  at  the  destruction  of  the  germ  in  the 
tissues  have  proved  futile  and  are  now  forgotten, 
and  how  the  simple  principles  of  treatment  repre- 
sented by  the  first  little  Sanitarium  cottage  have 
survived,  have  saved  and  prolonged  many  lives, 
and  are  constantly  being  applied  more  and  more 
extensively  and  intelligently  all  over  the  world. 

Dr.  Alfred  Loomis  had  always  been  very  friendly 
to  me  and  had  always  taken  an  interest  in  my  work, 
both  at  the  Sanitarium  and  in  my  little  labora- 
tory. I  had  a  new  proof  of  this  when  he  wrote  me 
in  the  fall  of  1886  that  he  had  presented  my  name 
for  membership  in  two  societies — the  American 
Climatological  Association  and  the  Association 
of  American  Physicians;  that  I  had  been  elected 
to  both,  and  that  he  wanted  me  to  write  a  paper 
for  the  Climatological  Association  which  met  in 

(206) 


Baltimore  the  following  May  (1887).  I  had  never 
belonged  to  any  medical  society  or  attended 
medical  meetings,  but  I  was  much  pleased  at 
Dr.  Loomis's  interest  and  decided  to  write  a  short 
paper  for  the  Climatological  Association,  describ- 
ing the  influence  of  extremes  of  environment  on 
my  inoculated  rabbits.  In  the  winter  I  wrote 
the  paper,  which  was  entitled,  "Environment  in 
its  Relation  to  the  Progress  of  Bacterial  Invasion 
in  Tuberculosis,"  and  we  went  to  town  in  May 
so  that  I  might  be  present  at  the  meeting  of  the 
Climatological  Association. 

I  left  my  wife  and  children  in  New  York  and 
went  down  on  the  afternoon  train  to  Baltimore 
with  Dr.  Loomis.  It  was  the  beginning  of 
June,  and  terribly  hot  when  we  reached  Balti- 
more that  evening.  I  hardly  slept  at  all  that 
night.  I  don't  think  this  was  entirely  due  to  the 
heat,  however,  as  I  was  beginning  to  dread  the 
idea  of  speaking  in  public  before  a  large  audience 
of  doctors,  and  I  am  sure  this  kept  me  awake. 
The  next  day  it  was  just  as  hot  and  I  could  eat 
no  breakfast.  I  went  to  the  meeting  and  found 
a  large  hall  packed  with  medical  men.  I  sat  next 
to  Dr.  Loomis  and  listened  to  the  papers  on  the 
program,  but  it  seemed  a  long  session  and  the 
dread  of  having  to  speak  before  such  an  audience 
increased. 

It  was  almost  time  for  my  paper  when  I  began 
to  feel  dizzy  and  faint.  I  leaned  over  to  Dr. 
Loomis  and  said,   "Doctor,   I  feel  badly."     He 

(207) 


turned  around  and  looked  at  me  and  said,  "Get 
up  and  go  out."  I  tried  to,  but  just  before  I  got 
to  the  door  darkness  overtook  me  and  I  fainted. 
The  next  thing  I  remember  I  was  lying  on  the 
floor  in  the  hall  just  outside  of  the  meeting-room, 
and  I  could  hear  the  hum  of  the  voices.  Dr. 
Loomis  was  leaning  over  me  and  saying,  "Where 
is  your  paper?"  I  gave  it  to  him,  and  then  lay 
there  in  a  sort  of  half-conscious  state  listening 
to  Dr.  Loomis's  strong  voice  as  he  read  my  paper. 
Then  came  loud  applause,  and  soon  Dr.  Loomis 
came  back  and  handed  me  the  paper  and  said, 
"That  was  a  good  paper."  Other  men  crowded 
around  me  and  shook  hands  with  me,  and  spoke 
of  the  paper  and  hoped  I  was  feeling  all  right 
again.  I  got  on  my  feet  and  walked  out  into  the 
street  while  somebody  held  my  arm,  and  I  soon 
began  to  feel  much  better. 

That  was  my  first  experience  at  a  medical 
meeting  and  the  way  I  read  my  first  paper.  I 
was  thoroughly  ashamed  of  myself,  but  there 
was  no  help  for  what  had  happened,  and  I  tried 
to  lay  my  fainting  entirely  to  the  excessive  heat. 
I  found  some  comfort,  however,  later  in  the  fact 
that  my  paper  was  noticed  by  many  of  the  medical 
journals  in  this  country,  and  that  abstracts  of 
it  appeared  in  two  or  three  of  the  well-known 
medical  publications  abroad. 

When  I  got  back  to  New  York  that  night  I 
vowed  I  would  never  go  to  a  medical  meeting 
again,  but  I  have  done  so  nevertheless  on  very 

(208) 


many  occasions.  I  was  a  long  time  overcoming 
my  stage-fright  when  speaking  in  public,  and 
and  I  am  not  so  sure  that  I  have  quite  done  so  yet. 
The  last  time  I  spoke  in  public  was  in  strange 
contrast  to  my  first  experience.  In  May,  1910, 
I  delivered  the  presidential  address  in  Washington 
at  the  Congress  of  American  Physicians  and  Sur- 
geons, and  although  I  was  very  ill  and  miserable 
with  fever  and  had  to  get  out  of  bed  to  do  it, 
the  warmth  of  the  reception  accorded  me  by  my 
professional  brethren  from  all  over  the  United 
States  so  overwhelmed  me  that  I  was  not  at  all 
aware  of  any  nervousness,  and  have  looked  back 
on  that  evening  as  one  of  the  red-letter  experiences 
of  my  life. 

It  was  at  the  meeting  of  the  Climatological 
Association,  where  I  fainted,  that  I  first  met  Dr. 
William  Osier  and  Dr.  William  H.  Welch,  and 
subsequently  I  came  in  contact  with  both  of 
them  when  I  attended  the  meetings  of  the  Asso- 
ciation of  American  Physicians  in  Washington, 
and  when  our  visits  to  Dr.  Thomas's  home  in 
Baltimore  became  very  frequent.  Both  of  these 
great  physicians,  who  had  already  made  reputa- 
tions which  were  not  confined  to  this  country, 
took  an  interest  in  my  experimental  work  and 
from  the  first  gave  me  their  advice  and  support. 
Dr.  Welch,  who  had  worked  in  Koch's  labora- 
tory, took  a  special  interest  in  my  attempts  to 
cultivate  the  tubercle  bacillus,  and  it  was  a  proud 

(209) 


day  for  me  when  I  sent  him  a  tube  containing  a 
pure  culture  of  the  germ  for  demonstration  to 
the  students  at  the  Johns  Hopkins  Medical 
School.    This  I  continued  to  do  for  several  years. 

Dr.  Osier  was  also  keenly  interested  in  my 
sanitarium  experiment  and  always  gave  the 
obscure  and  struggling  little  institution  the  sup- 
port of  his  approval.  In  the  first  edition  of  his 
famous  Practice  of  Medicine,  published  in  1893, 
he  did  not  hesitate  to  refer  approvingly  to  the 
Adirondack  Cottage  Sanitarium  and  the  principles 
of  treatment  it  stood  for.  The  support  of  his 
great  name  no  doubt  did  much  to  attract  atten- 
tion to  its  work  both  here  and  abroad. 

When  the  National  Association  for  the  Study 
and  Prevention  of  Tuberculosis,  in  which  Dr. 
Osier  was  so  prominent,  was  formed,  I  met  him 
regularly  at  the  early  committee  meetings,  and 
it  was  no  doubt  greatly  through  his  influence 
that  I  was  elected  the  first  president  of  this 
splendid  national  movement  against  tuberculosis. 
It  was  another  red-letter  day  in  my  life  when, 
at  the  first  meeting  of  this  National  Association, 
in  Washington  on  May  18,  1905,  I  stood  on  the 
platform  with  Dr.  Osier  and  Dr.  Hermann  M. 
Biggs  and  addressed  the  great,  earnest  body  of 
physicians  and  laymen  before  me. 

I  only  hope  that  the  wonderful  spirit  of  enthu- 
siasm and  unity  which  animated  that  meeting  may 
survive  many  years,  and  that  selfish  motives  and 
medical  politics  may  not  prevent  this  great  asso- 

(210) 


ciation  from  accomplishing  its  magnificent  destiny 
for  the  rehef  of  suffering  humanity. 

When  I  got  back  to  Saranac  Lake,  humbled 
by  my  fiasco  in  attempting  to  read  my  paper  in 
Baltimore,  though  I  fully  resolved  never  to 
attempt  to  read  another  paper  at  a  medical  meet- 
ing, I  was  just  as  keen  as  ever  to  continue  work 
in  my  little  laboratory.  For  awhile  I  kept  on  with 
the  same  idea  of  trying  to  kill  the  living  germs  by 
antiseptic  substances  in  the  tissues  of  infected 
animals,  and  besides  I  tested  experimentally 
the  new  "cures"  founded  on  the  same  principle 
which  were  beginning  to  be  advocated  in  the 
medical  papers  for  the  treatment  of  tuberculous 
patients.  I  tested  in  animals  sulphuretted  hydro- 
gen and  the  vapor  of  hydrofluoric  acid,  both  of 
which  had  been  put  forward  as  killing  the  bacilli 
and  curing  the  disease,  and  the  result  of  my 
experiments  proved  that  sulphuretted  hydrogen 
would  not  kill  the  bacilli,  even  when  they  were 
brought  in  direct  contact  with  it  in  its  undiluted 
form  and  for  long  periods  of  time;  and  that 
inhalations  of  hydrofluoric  acid  had  no  effect 
in  destroying  the  germs  in  inoculated  animals. 
I  also  found  that  the  hot-air  inhalations  which 
were  proposed  as  a  means  of  killing  the  germs  in 
the  patients'  lungs  had  no  effect  whatever  in 
destroying  the  bacillus.  These  observations  I 
published  at  once,  and  they  no  doubt  helped  to 
relegate  these  supposed  cures  to  deserved  oblivion. 

(211) 


I  began  to  realize  about  this  time  that  the 
direct  destruction  of  the  germ  in  the  tissues  by 
germicides  was  a  hopeless  proposition  and,  inspired 
by  Pasteur's  work  on  anthrax,  chicken  cholera 
and  hydrophobia,  I  sought  to  produce  immunity 
in  my  animals  by  dead  germs,  or  preventive 
inoculations  of  substances  derived  from  the  liquid 
cultures  from  which  the  bacilli  had  been  filtered. 
I  published  the  results  of  this  work  in  the  New 
York  Medical  Record  as  early  as  November  22, 
1890,  describing  my  experiments  in  detail,  and 
giving  as  my  conclusions  that  neither  the  dead 
germs  nor  the  soluble  poisonous  substances  derived 
from  liquid  cultures  of  the  tubercle  bacillus  pro- 
tected rabbits  and  guinea-pigs  against  subsequent 
inoculations. 

My  publication  of  this  work  at  this  early  date 
seems  especially  interesting,  because  it  was  in 
August,  1890,  that  Robert  Koch,  at  the  Inter- 
national Congress  in  Berlin,  announced  his  dis- 
covery of  a  substance  which  he  stated  would 
completely  immunize  guinea-pigs  against  subse- 
quent inoculations  with  tubercle  bacilli,  and 
would  cure  the  disease  in  human  beings.  He  did 
not  give  out  until  January,  1891,  that  this  sub- 
stance was  a  boiled  glycerin  extract  of  the  tubercle 
bacillus,  which  he  called  tuberculin,  and  which  is 
practically  the  same  substance  as  my  filtrate  of 
liquid  cultures  of  the  tubercle  bacillus  with  which 
I  had  failed  to  immunize  my  animals. 

It   would   be  hard   to  exaggerate   the   intense 

(212) 


excitement  that  pervaded  the  little  colony  of 
invalids  at  Saranac  Lake  when  Koch's  first 
announcement  of  his  specific  was  published  in 
the  daily  press,  and  I  had  all  I  could  do  to  prevent 
several  of  my  patients  from  rushing  over  to  Berlin 
at  once  to  be  cured.  Mr.  George  Cooper  offered 
to  send  me  to  Berlin  and  pay  my  expenses,  but 
Dr.  Prudden,  who  knew  the  conditions  advised 
me  not  to  go  and  I  took  his  advice. 

The  first  tuberculin  I  received  came  in  a  small 
glass  bulb  and  was  sent  me  by  Dr.  Osier,  who, 
with  his  usual  generosity,  shared  with  me  the 
first  bottle  of  the  priceless  fluid  he  had  just 
received  from  Germany.  This  small  bulb,  which 
was  supposed  to  contain  a  liquid  capable  of  giving 
life  to  hopeless  invalids,  was  gazed  at  with  deep 
emotion  by  many. 

I  at  once  began  the  injections  on  a  few  selected 
cases  at  the  Sanitarium,  and  watched  the  results 
with  keenest  interest.  Koch  had  not  at  that  time 
revealed  the  nature  of  his  specific.  Had  I  but 
known  that  the  precious  fluid  was  a  glycerin 
extract  of  the  tubercle  bacillus,  I  could  have 
carried  out  my  observations  on  a  much  larger 
scale,  for  in  my  little  laboratory  many  flasks  of 
liquid  cultures  of  the  tubercle  bacillus  were 
growing. 

The  bitter  disappointment  which  within  a  few 
months  followed  the  failure  of  Koch's  treatment  to 
bring  about  the  miraculous  cures  which  were 
expected  from  it  was  shown  very  soon  in  a  wide- 

(213) 


spread  and  violent  condemnation  of  the  remedy, 
and  for  many  years  I  had  the  utmost  difficulty 
in  obtaining  the  consent  of  patients  and  their 
physicians  to  the  most  cautious  use  of  the  injec- 
tions. Nevertheless,  so  great  was  my  faith  in 
Koch,  so  convinced  was  I  that  whatever  degree 
of  immunization  could  be  produced  must  be 
attainable  by  the  poison  of  the  germ  or  the  germ 
itself,  and  so  impressed  had  I  already  become 
with  what  I  had  seen  of  the  specific  effect  of  tuber- 
culin on  animals  and  at  the  bedside,  that  I  con- 
tinued its  study  in  the  Laboratory  and  its  cautious 
use  in  patients  who  were  willing  to  submit  to 
the  treatment.  Thus  it  came  about  that  through 
many  long  years,  during  which  the  bitter  preju- 
dice against  Koch's  specific  remedy  continued 
unabated,  tuberculin  has  been  used  continuously 
and  cautiously  at  the  Sanitarium  ever  since  Dr. 
Osier's  little  vial  of  magic  fluid  reached  Saranac 
Lake  in  1890. 

Today  tuberculin  is  a  treatment  that,  though 
still  on  trial,  may  be  said  to  have  won  a  place 
analogous  to  that  held  by  many  other  vaccines 
employed  in  chronic  infections.  By  its  intelli- 
gent use  some  of  the  latent  defensive  resources 
of  the  living  organism  may  be  successfully  stimu- 
lated in  chronic  cases,  when  the  disease  tends  to 
localize  and  the  infected  individual  is  still  capable 
of  responding  to  the  stimulation,  and  an  arrest 
of  the  onward  progress  brought  about. 

To  what  may  we  ascribe  the  fact  that  tuber- 

(214) 


culin  as  a  specific  remedy  for  tuberculosis  has 
not  fulfilled  the  expectations  of  its  distinguished 
discoverer?  That  Dr.  Koch  at  the  time  of  the 
International  Congress  had  been  pressed  to  make 
an  announcement  based  on  conclusions  which  he 
had  been  obliged  to  frame  on  evidence  which  as 
yet  was  insufficient,  seemed  at  first  very  possible. 
This  can  hardly  have  been  the  case,  later,  however, 
as  in  his  "T.  R. "  paper  published  in  1897,  he 
reiterates  his  assertion  as  to  the  immunizing 
effect  of  the  new  tuberculin  on  guinea-pigs  in 
no  uncertain  words:  "I  succeeded  in  rendering 
a  large  number  of  guinea-pigs  completely  immune, 
so  that  they  submitted  to  repeated  inoculations 
with  various  cultures  without  being  infected." 
If  we  look  into  the  animal  evidence  on  which 
Koch's  claims  of  the  immunizing  and  curative 
value  are  based,  those  of  us  who  have  tried  to 
follow  in  his  footsteps  are  struck  with  the  fact 
that  in  his  tuberculin  communications  he  departs 
from  the  rigid  methods  of  presenting  scientific 
evidence  which  in  his  previous  work  he  had  always 
adhered  to  so  strictly,  and  does  not  give  the  details 
of  experiments  in  immunizing  or  healing  guinea- 
pigs.  In  a  matter  of  such  crucial  importance  this 
is  greatly  to  be  regretted,  for  without  such  details 
it  is  difficult  for  others  to  repeat  his  work  and 
verify  his  favorable  conclusions,  and  this  is  the 
corner-stone  on  which  the  value  of  tuberculin 
as  a  specific  is  founded. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  up  to  the  present  time  all 

(215) 


other  observers  who  have  repeated  my  early 
attempts  have  failed,  as  I  did,  to  produce  a  real 
immunity  in  guinea-pigs  by  any  method;  and  if 
ever  this  can  be  done  successfully  we  may  begin  to 
think  the  great  specific,  so  patiently  and  ardently 
sought,  has  at  last  been  discovered. 

In  1908,  as  president  for  America  at  the  Inter- 
national Congress  on  Tuberculosis  held  in  Wash- 
ington, I  had  the  great  privilege  of  sitting  next 
to  Dr.  Robert  Koch  and  telling  him  how  excellent 
his  work  must  have  been  to  enable  a  tyro  like 
myself,  under  such  unfavorable  circumstances  and 
guided  only  by  the  accuracy  and  clearness  of  his 
descriptions  as  gleaned  from  a  pen-written  abstract, 
to  repeat  all  his  cultural  and  inoculation  experi- 
ments on  which  his  great  discovery  of  the  tubercle 
bacillus  as  the  cause  of  tuberculosis  was  based — 
a  discovery  of  such  far-reaching  importance  to 
humanity.  He  seemed  much  amused  at  my 
description  of  the  home-made  apparatus  and  the 
makeshifts  I  was  obliged  to  make  use  of. 


(216) 


XVII 

IN  December,  1892,  a  slender  and  pale  young 
man  rang  my  door-bell  one  morning  and  told  me 
he  was  a  doctor,  had  contracted  tuberculosis, 
and  wanted  to  go  to  the  Sanitarium.  Little 
did  I  know  then  how  much  the  coming  of  this 
strange  young  man  would  mean  to  me  personally, 
to  my  work,  to  Saranac  Lake,  and  to  the  world 
at  large!  He  told  me  his  name  was  Edward  R. 
Baldwin,  that  he  was  from  New  Haven;  and 
when  I  asked  what  made  him  think  he  had  tuber- 
culosis, he  quite  floored  me  by  his  answer:  that 
he  had  used  his  microscope  and  knew  he  had  it. 
Truly  Koch's  teaching  was  beginning  to  bring 
practical  results.  I  admitted  him  to  the  Sani- 
tarium. 

Through  many  long  years  of  friendly  fellow- 
ship, through  many  long  years  of  work  side  by 
side,  through  many  long  years  of  physical  misery 
and  suffering  my  debt  to  Dr.  Baldwin  has  steadily 
grown,  until  it  has  become  a  debt  which  I  can 
never  hope  to  repay  but  by  affection  and  grati- 
tude; a  coin  in  which  many  debts,  I  find,  are 
paid  to  him,  because  it  is  a  coin  he  cannot  possibly 
refuse   to   accept.      Riches,   fame  and   praise  he 

(217) 


scorns,  but  he  cannot  escape  the  heritage  of 
affection  and  gratitude  he  so  unconsciously  and 
abundantly  calls  forth. 

Dr.  Baldwin  had  to  wait  six  weeks  before  he 
could  get  into  the  Sanitarium,  as  the  waiting  list 
which  has  grown  to  be  a  permanent  feature  of 
the  institution  was  beginning  to  develop  even 
then.  At  my  invitation  he  came  to  the  Labora- 
tory the  day  after  he  arrived  in  town,  and  offered 
to  help  me  there  in  any  way.  I  was  overjoyed 
to  find  such  a  congenial  companion.  A  well- 
educated  physician  who  wanted  to  work  in  my 
laboratory  was  a  find  for  me  indeed;  for  not 
only  could  he  help  me  with  the  work,  but  I  could 
discuss  my  experiments  and  my  problems  with 
him,  and  this  proved  to  be  an  unfailing  common 
interest  to  us  both.  Dr.  Baldwin  in  those  days, 
of  course,  knew  even  less  than  I  did  about  the 
new  science  of  bacteriology,  and  I  gladly  taught 
him  all  I  knew;  and  as  gladly  does  he  teach  me 
now  the  latest  advances  in  a  branch  of  medical 
science  in  which  he  is  an  expert  and  an  acknowl- 
edged authority.  Many  happy  hours  did  we 
spend  working  in  the  Laboratory  together;  and 
now  that  I  cannot  work  with  him  any  more  he 
brings  to  my  bedside  the  latest  literature,  and 
tells  me  of  the  work  he  and  the  others  are 
doing. 

Dr.  Baldwin  soon  became  a  more  or  less  constant 
presence  in  my  little  laboratory,  and  I  learned  to 
lean  more  and  more  on  him  until  the  time  came 

(218) 


when  I  finally  turned  this  branch  of  my  work  over 
to  him  entirely. 

Until  Dr.  Baldwin's  arrival  in  Saranac  Lake 
I  had  had  no  one  to  discuss  my  work  with,  and 
I  had  no  help  of  any  kind  but  the  manual  assis- 
tance of  a  poor  Irish  patient  of  mine,  John  Quinlan. 
John  was  a  character.  He  was  a  most  pompous 
and  solemn  individual.  He  had  three  serious 
diseases  which  he  bore  uncomplainingly — epi- 
lepsy, tuberculosis,  and  a  well-known  blood  dis- 
ease; but  except  when  he  fell  in  a  fit  in  the  labora- 
tory he  was  able  to  do  light  work,  and  did  it 
most  conscientiously.  I  could  always  rely  upon 
his  doing  what  I  told  him  to  do.  He  delivered 
messages  to  the  letter,  washed  the  glass,  cleaned 
the  instruments,  fed  and  cared  for  the  animals, 
kept  the  temperature  regulated  in  the  little 
thermostat  when  I  was  away  for  a  long  time; 
and  though  solemn  as  an  owl,  and  a  regular  watch- 
dog about  keeping  people  out  of  the  Laboratory, 
he  was  always  willing  and  contented  to  work. 
I  think  he  had  a  most  indefinite  idea  as  to  what 
I  was  trying  to  do  and  what  it  was  all  about,  but 
he  kept  his  counsel.  I  came  in  once  to  find  a 
farmer,  who  wanted  to  sell  me  potatoes  for  the 
animals,  waiting  for  me  in  the  Laboratory.  He 
had  tried  to  extract  some  information  from  John 
as  to  what  all  the  pots  and  pans  and  bottles  and 
thermostats  meant,  but  John  had  considered 
such  a  man  too  much  beneath  him  to  give  him 
the  least  information.     Finally  the  farmer  turned 

(219) 


to  me  and  said,  "Be  you  taking  photographs?" 
John  never  cracked  a  smile,  but  I  did!  One 
day  I  sent  a  doctor  from  Paul  Smith's,  who  wanted 
to  see  some  of  my  experiments,  with  a  card  to 
John.  On  his  return  he  told  me  he  asked  John 
how  the  animals  got  along,  and  John's  answer 
was,  "They  do  do  pretty  well,  sir,  until  the 
Doctor  begins  to  fool  with  them!"  Truly  a 
satire  on  science,  and  ammunition  for  the  anti- 
vivisectionist! 

Twelve  years  had  passed  since  the  birth  of  a 
baby  had  blessed  our  household,  when  in  1887 
another  little  boy  arrived.  The  prospect  of 
bringing  up  another  baby  was  not  very  alluring. 
Chatte  and  Ned  were  now  well  grown  and  an 
addition  to  our  little  family  could  hardly  help 
disturbing  long-established  habits  both  of  thought 
and  behavior.  But  Providence  plays  strange 
tricks:  and  it  is  not  always  given  to  us  to  perceive 
in  today's  trial  the  comfort  of  tomorrow.  The 
new  baby  was  called  Francis,  after  my  brother, 
and  became,  as  is  usual  under  such  circumstances, 
the  pet  of  the  household.  And  now  that  death 
has  taken  the  others,  that  illness  has  laid  its 
heavy  hand  upon  me,  and  advancing  years  have 
made  us  aware  that  the  sun  is  setting  for  us  and 
the  end  of  the  road  is  growing  rough  and  dark, 
the  not  over-welcome  baby,  who  has  become  the 
rugged,  six-foot-four  man,  is  our  main  interest  and 
a  good  prop  to  lean  on. 

(220) 


As  we  look  out  over  the  stretches  of  the  long 
journey  of  life,  on  which  for  us 

Pleasure  and  pain 

Have  followed  each  other 

Like  sunshine  and  rain, 

in  the  far  distance  we  see  another  baby,  Francis's 
tiny  baby  boy,  his  smiling  face  set  to  the  glowing 
dawn,  starting  out  over  the  same  road  we  have 
traversed,  to  meet  the  changes  we  have  met  on 
our  pilgrimage. 

We  are  told  "  It  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody 
good,"  and  it  may  have  been  an  "ill  wind" 
for  Dr.  H.  M.  Thomas  that  blew  him  to  the 
Adirondacks,  broken  in  health,  in  the  fall  of  i888; 
but  for  the  Trudeau  family  it  proved  anything 
but  an  ill  wind.  As  he  drove  up  from  the  station 
his  driver  almost  ran  over  Baby  Francis,  who 
was  being  pushed  by  his  old  nurse  "Jeje"  in  his 
little  carriage;  but  after  Dr.  Thomas  reached  the 
house  he  soon  dispelled  the  unpleasant  impression 
produced  by  the  baby's  peril,  and  before  many 
days  all  the  Trudeau  family,  including  Jeje  her- 
self, was  glad  of  his  coming.  This  strange  young 
doctor  with  the  red  hair  was  soon  quite  at  home 
with  all  of  us,  and  to  my  wife  and  to  me  for 
twenty-seven  years  he  has  been  one  of  our  very 
best  friends;  a  friendship  which  has  been  one 
of  the  good  things  to  me  in  life — and  his  wife  is 
as  dear  to  us  as  he  is.    One  of  their  boys  is  called 

(221) 


Trudeau,  and  the  days  spent  with  the  Thomases 
in  their  Baltimore  home  are  among  the  happiest 
recollections  we  look  back  upon. 

Soon  after  his  arrival  Dr.  Thomas  was  knocking 
the  ball  to  Chatte  on  the  piazza,  helping  my  wife 
in  the  parlor  teach  Francis  his  first  steps,  coasting 
with  Ned  on  the  hills,  hunting  rabbits  with  me  in 
the  daytime  and  working  with  me  evenings  in 
the  Laboratory.  I  have  had  many  good  friends  in 
my  life — no  man  ever  had  better — and  they  have 
gone  deep  into  my  heart;  but  none  quite  so  deep 
as  Harry  Thomas.  Surely  it  is  an  ill  wind  that 
blows  nobody  good ! 

Dr.  Thomas  was  sent  here  by  Dr.  Francis  Dela- 
field,  with  a  brief  note  ending  in  a  sentence  charac- 
teristic of  Dr.  Delafield's  summary  way  of  occa- 
sionally disposing  of  a  case:  "He  has  red  hair 
and  both  lungs  are  involved,  so  I  think  there  is 
no  hope  for  him."  In  spite  of  this  gloomy  prog- 
nosis, based  on  two  such  divergent  factors,  Dr. 
Thomas  recovered  his  health  completely  and  has 
practised  medicine  in  Baltimore,  and  taught 
neurology  at  the  Johns  Hopkins  Medical  School 
ever  since. 

Many  years  afterward — in  1904 — the  same  kind 
of  an  "ill  wind"  that  blew  Dr.  Thomas  to  Saranac 
Lake  was  responsible  for  the  coming  of  Dr.  J. 
Woods  Price.  It  proved  to  be  a  balmy  breeze, 
laden  with  sunshine  and  cheer  and  comfort  so 
far  as  Saranac  Lake  and  the  Trudeau  family 
were  concerned.     Dr.  Price's  coming  has  brought 

(222) 


joy  to  those  who  are  well  and  been  a  benediction 
to  the  sick,  and  the  health  he  so  quickly  recovered 
he  squanders  now  to  cheer  and  help  others.  When 
the  dark  days  of  illness  press  heavily  upon  me  my 
wife  and  I  turn  to  him  constantly,  and  never  in 
vain. 


(223) 


XVI  I  I 

ON  October  3, 1887,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  came 
to  Saranac  Lake  for  his  health,  accompanied 
by  his  mother  and  Lloyd  Osbourne,  and  remained 
until  April  18,  1888.  The  little  village  has  had 
perhaps  no  more  illustrious  visitor — or  at  least 
none  in  whom  the  public  took  a  deeper  interest — 
than  Robert  Louis  Stevenson;  and  Andrew 
Baker's  cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village, 
where  he  spent  the  fall  and  winter  of  1 887-1 888, 
has  become  an  object  of  historical  interest.  It  is 
now  proposed  to  put  up  at  the  Baker  cottage  some 
tablet  or  memorial  to  make  a  permanent  record 
of  the  famous  writer's  stay  here. 

It  was  while  here  that  Mr.  Stevenson  wrote 
some  of  his  best  essays — Pulvis  et  Umbra,  The 
Lantern  Bearers,  A  Christmas  Sermon,  and  some 
portions  of  The  Master  of  Ballantrae. 

Mr.  Stevenson  was  my  patient,  but  as  he  was 
not  really  ill  while  here  I  had  comparatively  few 
professional  calls  to  make  on  him.  He  was  so 
attractive,  however,  in  conversation,  that  I  found 
myself,  as  it  was  growing  dark,  very  often  seated 
by  the  big  fireplace  in  the  Baker  cottage  having 
a  good  talk  with  my  illustrious  patient. 

(225) 


Mr.  Stevenson  was  very  democratic  in  his 
ideas,  simple  in  his  mode  of  life,  and  disliked  dress- 
parade  entertainments  and  the  restraints  and  glitter 
of  society  etiquette,  as  the  following  anecdotes  will 
show.  My  friends  the  Coopers,  who  lived  very 
handsomely  in  New  York,  had  surrounded  them- 
selves with  some  of  their  home  comforts.  They 
had  brought  up  their  old  butler  from  town,  and 
some  silver,  and  the  sisters  tried  to  make  the 
Saranac  Lake  atmosphere  as  much  as  possible  like 
the  New  York  home  life  to  which  the  sick  brother 
was  accustomed.  I  remember  on  one  occasion 
I  went  to  dine  there  with  Mr.  Stevenson,  and 
Mrs.  Custer,  the  wife  of  General  Custer,  was  the 
only  other  guest  besides  my  wife.  When  dinner 
was  announced,  as  we  walked  through  the  hall 
we  got  a  glimpse  of  the  dining-room  table,  which 
was  set  as  usual  with  lighted  candles  and  their 
colored  shades,  with  flowers,  glittering  glassware 
and  silver.  I  thought  it  a  very  attractive  pros- 
pect, but  Mr.  Stevenson,  who  walked  by  my  side, 
took  my  arm  and  said:  "This  sort  of  thing  always 
gives  me  stage-fright;  does  it  affect  you  that  way?  " 

We  had  a  most  interesting  dinner,  as  can  be 
imagined.  Mrs.  Custer  and  Mr.  Stevenson  were 
both  well  worth  listening  to.  I  couldn't  help 
smiling,  though,  when  in  the  course  of  conversa- 
tion Stevenson  remarked  that  a  certain  acquain- 
tance of  his  was  so  timid  that  he  thought  he  would 
be  "afraid  of  a  mouse."  Mrs.  Custer  said,  "O, 
Mr.  Stevenson,  I  am  deadly  afraid  of  a  mouse!" 

(226) 


Yet  Mrs.  Custer's  experience  on  the  plains  had 
given  ample  proof  that  she  was  afraid  of  neither 
Indians  nor  death! 

All  the  visitors  in  Saranac  Lake  were  anxious 
to  meet  Stevenson,  and  I  think  in  order  to  relieve 
him  of  the  annoyance  of  frequent  calls,  Lloyd 
Osboume  gave  out  that  the  great  writer  would 
see  callers  on  Saturday  afternoons  between  four 
and  five  o'clock.  Our  friends,  the  Cooper  ladies 
and  Miss  Folger,  joined  my  wife  and  me  on  the 
first  Saturday  after  this,  and  we  all  went  to  call 
at  the  Baker  cottage  together.  When  we  knocked 
at  the  front  door  a  voice  from  within  called  out, 
"You  cannot  come  in  this  way;  the  wood  is  up 
against  the  door.  Go  around  by  the  kitchen." 
So  we  all  filed  in  through  the  kitchen  to  the 
little  sitting-room  with  the  big  fireplace,  where 
Mr.  Stevenson  received  us.  After  awhile  Mr. 
Osboume  asked  the  ladies  if  they  would  have  a 
cup  of  tea,  and  as  they  assented  he  departed 
toward  the  kitchen.  Soon  he  returned,  with  a 
broad  smile  on  his  face:  "I  am  sorry,  but  you 
cannot  have  any  tea;  the  cook  scouts  the  idea!'* 
And  we  didn't  have  any. 

We  had  a  very  pleasant  call,  however,  and  I 
remained  after  the  others  to  have  a  little  profes- 
sional talk  with  Mr.  Stevenson.  The  visitors 
all  left  but  one  enthusiastic  lady,  who  harassed 
Stevenson  with  all  sorts  of  questions;  but  finally 
he  escorted  her  to  the  door  and  bowed  her  out. 

I  noticed  he  shut  the  door  rather  forcibly,  and 

( 227  ) 


then  he  strode  up  to  me,  put  his  face  very  near 
mine,  and  said  with  much  emphasis,  "Trudeau, 
it  is  not  the  great  unwashed  whom  I  dread;  it 
is  the  great  washed!" 

Mr.  Stevenson  and  I  had  many  interesting  and 
at  times  heated  discussions  by  the  fireplace  in 
the  sitting-room.  It  was  really  a  great  privilege 
to  meet  him  in  this  informal  way,  and  even  if  we 
didn't  always  agree,  the  impression  of  his  striking 
personality,  his  keen  insight  into  life,  his  wondrous 
idealism,  his  nimble  intellect  and  his  inimitable 
vocabulary  in  conversation,  has  grown  on  me  more 
and  more  as  the  years  roll  by.  It  is  hardly  to  be 
wondered  at  that  we  did  not  agree  on  many  topics, 
for  our  interests  and  our  points  of  view  on  many 
subjects  were  utterly  at  variance.  My  life  interests 
were  bound  up  in  the  study  of  facts,  and  in  the 
Laboratory  I  bowed  daily  to  the  majesty  of  fact, 
wherever  it  might  lead.  Mr.  Stevenson's  view 
was  to  ignore  or  avoid  as  much  as  possible 
unpleasant  facts,  and  live  in  a  beautiful,  strenuous 
and  ideal  world  of  fancy.  He  didn't  care  to  go 
to  the  Sanitarium  with  me  or  see  the  Laboratory, 
because  to  him  these  were  unpleasant  things. 
He  evidently  felt  this,  for,  after  he  had  written 
The  Lantern  Bearers,  I  got  him  one  day  into 
the  Laboratory,  from  which  he  escaped  at  the 
first  opportunity  with  the  words,  "Trudeau, 
your  light  may  be  very  bright  to  you,  but  to  me 
it  smells  of  oil  like  the  Devil!"  On  the  other 
hand,  I  know  quite  well  I  could  not  discuss  intel- 

(228) 


ligently  with  him  the  things  he  lived  among  and 
the  masterly  work  he  produced,  because  I  was 
incompetent  to  appreciate  to  the  full  the  wonderful 
situations  his  brilliant  mind  evolved,  and  the 
high  literary  merit  of  the  works  in  which  he  de- 
scribed the  flights  of  his  great  genius. 

To  a  temperament  like  Stevenson's,  who  shrank 
from  the  cruel  and  inexorable  facts  of  life — 
disease,  suffering  and  death — which  were  part 
of  my  daily  existence,  and  who  lived  in  an  ideal 
world  painted  and  peopled  by  his  own  vivid 
imagination,  I  represented,  I  am  afraid,  a  not 
very  cheerful  or  inspiring  companion.  He  could 
not,  as  I  could,  look  over  and  beyond  these  pain- 
ful associations  with  which  I  lived  in  daily  contact 
at  the  Sanitarium  and  the  Laboratory,  and  see, 
as  I  did  in  my  ideals,  the  glorious  hope  of  future 
relief  to  humanity  from  sickness,  suffering  and 
death  which  lay  in  the  study  of  disease  at  the 
bedside,  and  of  infection  and  germs  and  sick 
animals  in  the  Laboratory.  This  was  the  light 
which  was  so  bright  to  me  that  I  never  noticed 
the  smell  of  oil  which  overcame  Stevenson. 

Nevertheless  we  were  excellent  friends,  and  I 
regret  constantly  that  I  didn't  make  more  of  my 
opportunities  of  intimate  contact  with  a  man 
whose  writings  have  meant  so  much  to  the  world. 

When  he  left  Saranac  Lake  he  sent  me  a  beau- 
tiful set  of  his  works  which  he  had  had  bound  with 
a  special  binding  for  me,  and  in  each  book  he 
had  written  in  his  own  hand  a  verse  dedicating 

(229) 


the  volume  to  some  member  of  my  family  and  to 
me,  and  even  to  my  dog  Nig. 

In  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde  he  had  written: 

Trudeau  was  all  the  winter  at  my  side: 
I  never  spied  the  nose  of  Mr.  Hyde. 

To  Mrs.  Trudeau  he  had  dedicated  The  Dyna- 
miter in  these  words: 

As  both  my  wife  and  I  composed  the  thing, 
Let's  place  it  under  Mrs.  Trudeau's  wing. 

To  my  daughter,  Virginihus  Puerisque,  in  these 
words: 

I  have  no  art  to  please  a  lady's  mind, 

Here's  the  least  acid  spot, 

Miss  Trudeau,  of  the  lot. 
If  you'd  just  try  this  volume,  'twould  be  kind! 

To  Ned,  Treasure  Island,  in  these  words: 

I  could  not  choose  a  patron  for  each  one: 
But  this,  perhaps,  is  chiefly  for  your  son. 

To  the  baby  (Francis),  A  Child's  Garden  oj 
Verse^  in  these  words: 

To  win  your  lady  (if,  alas,  it  may  be), 
Let's  couple  this  one  with  the  name  of  Baby! 

And  to  Nig,  Memories  and  Portraits,  in  these 
words: 

Greeting  to  all  your  household,  small  and  big, 
In  this  one  instance,  not  forgetting — Nig! 

This  invaluable  gift,  alas,  was  destroyed  when 
my  house  and  laboratory  were  burned  to  the 
ground  in  1893. 

(230) 


XIX 

THE  arrival  of  the  new  baby  was  a  Godsend  to 
us  before  many  years,  as  sickness,  sorrow  and 
death  were  soon  to  cast  their  dark  shadow  on  our 
household. 

Chatte  was  a  strong,  athletic  girl,  with  a  vig- 
orous body  and  eyes  as  black  as  coal.  She  was  very 
fond  of  rowing,  tennis,  riding  horseback  and  all 
violent  exercise,  and  had  never  shown  any  sign 
of  illness.  Ned  was  slighter,  but  very  wiry  and 
active.  We  had  had  either  a  tutor  or  a  governess 
for  the  two  children,  but  when  Chatte  reached 
the  age  of  sixteen  my  wife  and  I  decided  she 
should  have  more  opportunities  in  her  education 
and  in  coming  in  contact  with  other  young  people, 
and  so  in  the  fall  of  1887  we  sent  her  to  a  girls* 
school  in  New  York  City. 

At  first  her  letters  and  the  accounts  we  received 
showed  us  she  was  homesick  and  not  very  happy, 
but  in  January  she  wrote  she  didn't  feel  well 
and  our  friends  said  her  appetite  had  fallen  off 
and  that  she  had  indigestion.  I  laid  all  this 
to  the  confinement  of  school  and  city  life,  but 
as  she  did  not  seem  to  get  any  better  I  began 
to   be   anxious,   and   finally   wrote   her   to   come 

(231) 


home  for  Easter  and  let  me  take  a  look  at  her. 
I  met  her  at  the  train  and  brought  her  home,  and 
In  ever  shall  forget  the  shock  her  appearance 
gave  me.  From  a  plump,  robust  young  woman 
she  had  changed  to  a  pale,  listless  girl,  and  as  she 
went  upstairs  to  see  her  mother  I  went  into  my 
office  and  shut  the  door.  The  terrible  truth 
flashed  upon  me  as  I  remembered  how  my  brother 
appeared  when  he  was  taken  ill  and  came  to  see 
me  in  Newport.  I  knew  it  was  the  same  old  story, 
and  I  felt  stunned  and  had  to  wait  a  long  time  to 
get  hold  of  myself  again  before  joining  the  family 
circle.  I  at  once  made  up  my  mind  I  must  know 
the  truth,  and  alarm  her  as  little  as  possible. 
It  was  my  responsibility  and  I  could  share  it  with 
no  one,  so  I  did  a  piece  of  acting  that  day  which 
I  shall  never  forget,  with  a  smile  on  my  face  and 
a  breaking  heart;  for  before  night  I  knew  the 
truth  in  all  its  shocking  details.  And  yet  no  one 
in  the  school,  none  of  our  friends  who  saw  her 
constantly,  had  suspected  it!  I  told  my  wife  at 
once.  I  have  always  told  her  everything,  and  we 
have  always  borne  together  whatever  we  have  had 
to  bear.  As  usual,  in  spite  of  the  terrible  shock, 
she  was  calm  and  hopeful.  For  some  mysterious 
reason  I  was  much  less  so.  I  felt  from  the  first 
this  was  the  same  type  of  disease  my  brother 
had;  the  type  that  progresses  rapidly  and  against 
which  treatment  is  of  no  avail. 

After   Chatte's   return   home   my   wife   and    I 
were   drawn   closer   together   than   ever   by   our 

(232) 


common  and  ever-present  grief,  as  for  nearly 
three  years  we  watched  helplessly  her  young  life 
fade  away  under  the  relentless  attacks  of  her 
disease.  To  be  cheerful  and  always  helpful  to  her 
was  our  first  thought,  and  she  tried  to  spare  us 
by  hiding  her  feelings;  but  she  understood  only 
too  well,  poor  child,  the  meaning  of  her  symptoms, 
and  the  yearning  for  life  and  its  joy  was  as  strong 
in  her  as  it  ever  is  in  the  young.  During  these 
sad  years  of  Chatte's  struggle  for  life  my  wife 
and  I  ever  lived  with  heavy  hearts,  though  we 
tried  to  show  her  only  smiling  faces.  It  was 
easier  for  me,  because  I  had  to  work.  I  had  to 
listen  to  the  daily  appeals  of  the  sick,  I  had  to 
keep  the  work  at  the  Sanitarium  and  Laboratory 
going,  and  to  that  extent  I  could  forget.  But  for 
my  wife  it  was  much  harder,  for  she  was  almost 
always  with  Chatte,  always  trying  to  guide  her 
in  her  daily  life,  amusing  her,  reading  to  her, 
trying  to  make  her  forget;  and  I  was  lost  in 
wonder  and  admiration  as  I  watched  her  through 
these  long,  trying  years,  always  serene,  helpful 
and  cheerful,  though  I  often  knew  that  her  heart 
was  breaking. 

The  following  summer  we  spent  at  Paul  Smith's, 
and  Chatte  was  a  little  better,  but  after  we 
returned  to  Saranac  Lake  the  fever  gradually 
became  higher  and  more  continuous.  In  the 
spring  she  was  so  ill  we  decided  that  we  could 
not  go  over  to  our  camp  at  Paul  Smith's  as  usual, 
and  that  I  could  not  leave  her  as  frequently  as  I 

(233) 


should  have  to  do  if  I  had  all  the  practice  at  St. 
Regis  and  the  work  at  Saranac  Lake  to  look  after; 
so  we  took  a  cottage  near  the  Ampersand  Hotel 
and  spent  the  summer  there. 

To  make  matters  worse  at  this  trying  time, 
Francis  came  down  with  whooping-cough  and  I 
caught  it  from  him,  so  during  all  the  spring  and 
summer  I  went  about  hanging  on  to  anything 
I  could  reach  when  the  strangling  paroxysms 
seized  me. 

Our  troubles  taught  me,  however,  how  many 
and  how  good  were  the  friends  we  had,  and  there 
is  absolutely  nothing  they  did  not  offer  to  do, 
or  actually  do,  to  try  to  help  us.  In  one  instance, 
a  dear  friend.  Miss  Kinney  Kirby,  actually  left 
her  New  York  home  the  first  winter  of  Chattels 
illness  and  took  charge  of  the  little  infirmary  at 
the  Sanitarium,  ostensibly  to  relieve  me  there,  but 
principally  that  she  might  be  near  to  help  us  with 
our  invalid.  The  following  winter,  when  for  a  long 
time  Chatte  was  so  very  ill.  Miss  Kirby  remained 
in  Saranac  Lake  and  nursed  her  night  and  day 
when  we  would  allow  her  to.  The  doctors  in  New 
York  and  Saranac  Lake,  and  especially  my  good 
friend.  Dr.  Baldwin,  did  all  that  tender  helpfulness 
could  do  to  help  and  comfort  us. 

The  last  winter  of  Chatte's  life  she  suffered 
so  constantly  that  it  was  a  terrible  strain  to  us 
all.  As  I  worked  in  the  little  laboratory  I  could 
always  hear  her  constant  and  harassing  cough, 
and  for  the  last  three  months  of  her  life  my  wife 

(234) 


and  I  were  with  her  for  some  part  of  every  night. 
My  one  consolation  was  that  with  drugs  I  could 
relieve  her  when  necessary,  but  it  was  a  terrible 
strain  to  withhold  the  relief  when  we  thought  it 
unwise  to  give  it.  She  died  on  the  night  of  March 
20,  1893,  and  after  she  had  gone  my  wife  and 
I,  though  stunned  by  the  blow  we  had  been  ex- 
pecting so  long,  could  not  but  be  thankful  that  her 
suffering  was  at  an  end. 

We  decided  to  have  the  funeral  at  St.  Luke's, 
and  lay  Chatte  in  the  little  churchyard  at  St. 
Regis  by  the  side  of  the  baby,  who  was  sleeping 
there  under  a  little  white  cross. 

I  was  worn  out  mentally  and  physically,  and 
the  night  before  the  funeral  I  could  not  sleep. 
So,  although  it  was  quite  dark,  I  got  up  at  half- 
past  five  o'clock,  went  down  to  my  little  labora- 
tory and  tried  to  busy  myself  with  things  there. 
At  six-thirty  I  heard  the  whistle  of  the  train,  and 
I  put  on  my  hat  and  went  out  for  a  little  fresh 
air.  The  snow  lay  deep  over  the  sleeping  village 
and  the  street  was  deserted.  It  was  quite  dark, 
but  life  seemed  to  me  still  darker.  As  I  looked 
at  the  gloomy  prospect  I  saw  a  tall  figure  walking 
rapidly  toward  me,  and  in  a  moment  my  good 
friend,  Dr.  Hodenpyl,  whom  I  first  met  in  Dr. 
Prudden's  laboratory,  was  shaking  my  hand.  He 
had  read  the  notice  of  Chatte's  death  in  the 
paper  the  afternoon  before  while  at  the  College 
laboratory,  and  had  decided  to  come  up  at  once 
on  the  night  train,  drive  over  to  St.  Regis  with 

(235) 


us  and  return  to  New  York  from  there.  He  told 
me  he  thought  other  people  had  come  up  cind  gone 
to  the  hotel,  and  after  breakfast  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bayard  Smith,  my  wife's  cousins,  who  had  come 
to  attend  the  funeral,  arrived  at  the  house. 

The  funeral  was  at  St.  Luke's,  just  across  the 
street,  and  some  of  the  young  men  who  were 
Chatte's  friends  carried  the  coffin,  covered  with 
flowers,  from  the  house  to  the  altar.  We  started 
for  St.  Regis  in  sleighs  as  soon  as  the  ceremony 
was  over.  The  snow  was  four  feet  deep  on  the 
level  and  drifted  in  many  places,  and  the  drive 
over  was  a  trying  one.  Six  strong  men  had  to 
walk  by  the  coffin  and  steady  it  when  drifts  were 
encountered  by  the  struggling  horses.  As  we 
neared  St.  Regis  I  could  not  but  go  back  in 
memory  to  the  trying  trip  through  the  snow  from 
Malone  in  January,  1875,  when  Chatte  was 
brought  in  Annie  Gaffney's  arms  to  St.  Regis; 
and  she  was  now  being  carried  in  her  coffin  through 
the  same  deep  drifts,  to  the  same  place,  to  sleep 
the  "long  sleep"  by  the  little  log  church  where  she 
had  worshipped  all  through  her  innocent  young 
life.  These  were  the  surroundings  amid  which 
she  had  lived  and  which  she  had  loved.  I  felt 
she  would  rest  more  peacefully  under  the  tall 
pines  than  anywhere  else,  and  a  great  peace  seemed 
to  come  to  me  with  the  thought  that  "all  is  well 
with  the  child." 

When  we  reached  the  little  log  church  again 
we  met  evidences  of  the  love  of  those  who  had 

(236) 


known  her  in  life.  Paul  Smith  and  his  two  sons, 
Phelps  and  Paul,  now  grown  to  be  men,  were 
waiting  there  with  many  of  the  St.  Regis  guides, 
to  carry  the  coffin  to  its  last  resting  place.  They 
had  cut  evergreen  boughs  and  covered  the  snow 
from  the  church  to  the  grave,  so  that  the  little 
journey  was  made  over  this  green  lawn,  and  the 
grave  itself  was  a  bed  of  fragrant  balsam  and 
cedar,  into  which  Paul  and  his  sons  helped  to 
lower  the  flower-covered  coffin. 

My  wife  and  I  sat  silently  as  we  drove  home 
through  the  darkness  and  the  deep  snow,  and  I 
derived  some  comfort  from  repeating  to  myself 
these  words:  "What  I  do  thou  knowest  not  now, 
but  thou  shalt  know  hereafter." 


(237) 


XX 

DURING  these  years  so  full  of  sadness  to  our 
household,  the  work  at  the  Sanitarium  had 
steadily  progressed.  From  1889  to  1894  iiine 
new  cottages  were  built.  These  were  given  by 
Mr.  Thomzis  Stokes,  Mr.  Nathan  Straus,  an 
anonymous  giver,  K.  M.  M.,  Mr.  George  Dodge, 
Mr.  Wm.  W.  McAlpin,  Mrs.  Alfred  Loomis,  and 
Mr.  Wm.  Hall  Penfold  and  Miss  Josephine 
Penfold.  An  open-air  pavilion  for  recreation, 
amusement  and  billiards,  was  presented  to  the 
institution  by  Mrs.  Anson  Phelps  Stokes,  and 
an  infirmary  cottage,  where  the  very  ill  could 
be  taken  and  properly  nursed  and  cared  for,  was 
given  by  Mrs.  John  H.  Hall.  A  small  five-year 
laboratory  fund  was  established  by  two  anony- 
mous givers,  a  library  wing  was  added  to  the 
Main  Building  by  the  brothers  and  sisters  of 
Mr.  Charles  Kahnweiler  as  a  memorial  to  him, 
and  a  large  cottage  for  the  Resident  Physician 
was  built  in  1893. 

The  acquisition  of  the  Infirmary  cottage  and 
the  home  for  the  Resident  Physician  was  a  great 
help  in  the  development  of  the  medical  work  of 
the  Sanitarium.     Whatever  physician  we  could 

(239) 


procure  had  hitherto  had  a  room  and  his  office 
in  the  Main  Building.  This  did  well  enough 
for  a  bachelor  or  for  a  doctor  who  made  a  short 
stay,  but  a  home  for  the  Resident  Physician  had 
become  a  necessity.  I  felt  much  relieved  when 
Dr.  Irwin  H.  Hance  and  his  wife  moved  into 
the  cottage,  and  I  knew  that  the  patients  would 
be  constantly  under  his  medical  supervision, 
and  that  if  he  did  not  get  any  salary  to  speak  of — 
three  hundred  dollars  a  year — he  at  any  rate  had 
a  comfortable  home. 

The  Infirmary,  too,  was  a  great  blessing  and 
enabled  us  to  care  properly  for  sick  patients  and 
nurse  them  more  conveniently.  It  was  this 
infirmary  that  my  friend  Miss  Kirby  took  charge 
of  in  1892.  When  she  asked  me  if  she  could  take 
the  place  I  thought  it  was  a  mere  temporary  act 
of  devotion  with  her  which  she  would  soon  weary 
of,  and  told  her  so,  but  said  I  was  perfectly  willing 
she  should  try  it.  I  called  at  the  Infirmary  soon 
after  she  arrived,  and  found  her  carrying  pails 
and  meal-trays,  and  washing  the  face  and  hands 
of  a  big  Irishman  who  had  hemorrhages,  as  if 
she  had  never  done  anything  else  all  her  life.  I 
began  then  to  think  she  was  in  earnest,  and  indeed 
she  was.  At  the  sacrifice  of  personal  comfort, 
without  money  and  without  price,  she  did  that 
winter  all  the  nursing  of  the  Infirmary  up  to  the 
full  time  of  her  proposed  stay,  and  was  a  real 
help  and  comfort  to  me  as  well  as  to  all  the  patients 
she  cared  for. 

(240) 


Last  fall  our  little  new  Training  School  for 
Tuberculosis  Nurses  at  the  Sanitarium  graduated 
its  first  pupils,  and  I  presented  the  diplomas. 
Curiously  enough,  Miss  Kirby,  whom  I  had  not 
seen  for  years,  turned  up  in  Saranac  Lake  on  a 
visit  the  day  before,  so  I  took  her  up  to  the 
graduating  exercises  with  me.  As  I  spoke  to  the 
nurses  of  the  early  days  of  the  Sanitarium  and  the 
difficulties  I  had  had  to  meet  to  get  the  nursing 
done,  I  told  them  of  the  lady  who  had  volunteered 
to  come  up  and  nurse  the  bed-ridden  patients 
at  the  Infirmary  so  many  years  ago,  thus  inaug- 
urating the  nursing  at  the  Sanitarium,  of  which 
the  Training  School  was  the  outcome;  and  I 
added,  "This  lady  is  with  us  today  and  sitting 
right  behind  me."  Miss  Kirby  was  covered  with 
confusion,  but  I  was  glad  she  could  be  present 
and  see  what  had  developed  from  her  disinterested 
work  so  many  years  ago. 

Our  first  little  Infirmary  soon  came  under  the 
care  of  Miss  Ruth  Collins,  who  presided  over  it 
for  years,  until  it  became  too  small  for  our  needs 
and  we  moved  into  the  beautiful  Childs  Memorial, 
a  gift  of  Mr.  Otis  H.  Childs,  of  Pittsburgh,  to  his 
wife's  memory,  where  the  sick  have  been  cared 
for,  with  every  convenience  and  in  the  utmost 
comfort,  ever  since.  Miss  Collins  for  years 
presided  over  the  Childs  Memorial  Infirmary, 
and  did  devoted  and  excellent  work  there  for 
the  sick,  who  all  loved  her.  I  learned  much  of 
the  practical  workings  of  the  gospel  of  unselfish- 

(241) 


ness  from  her.  Indeed,  my  associates  and  subor- 
dinates have  taught  me  many  valuable  lessons 
in  the  great  things  of  life. 

One  morning  Miss  Collins  came  into  my  office 
and  told  me  she  had  a  favor  to  ask  of  me:  would 
I  grant  it?  I  said  I  certainly  would  if  I  could. 
She  knew  a  sick  man  in  the  village  who  had  been 
struggling  for  three  years  to  regain  his  health, 
and  now  he  was  failing  rapidly;  he  had  not  a 
dollar,  he  had  no  friends.  Dr.  Baldwin  had  told 
her  he  could  not  live  over  two  or  three  months. 
She  knew  very  well  I  did  not  like  to  take  hopeless 
cases  at  the  Infirmary,  for  it  did  much  to  depress 
others,  and  such  cases  could  as  well  be  cared  for 
elsewhere.  She  would  put  this  man  in  her  own 
room  and  bed,  where  he  would  not  come  in 
contact  with  the  other  patients,  and  she  would 
sleep  on  the  lounge  in  the  sitting-room.  It  would 
not  interfere  with  her  work.  I  told  her  to  do  as 
she  wished,  and  for  three  months  she  slept  on  the 
lounge  and  cared  for  this  poor  fellow  until  he 
died.  When  I  went  upstairs  that  day  I  said  to 
my  wife,  "I  used  to  think  I  tried  at  times  to  do 
my  share  for  the  consumptive,  but  certainly  I 
had  never  thought  of  getting  out  of  my  bed  and 
room  and  caring  for  months  for  a  dying  man 
while  I  slept  on  a  lounge!" 

As  early  as  1880  when  I  sat  on  the  old  fox 
runway  and  first  dreamed  of  the  possibility  of 
building  a  little  institution  for  tuberculous  pa- 
tients, the  only  idea  I  had  in  my  mind  was  to 

(242) 


help  financially  the  poorer  class  of  invalids  who 
could  not  afford  to  stay  in  Saranac  Lake.  In 
other  words,  I  wanted  to  put  within  reach  of 
others  the  same  opportunity  for  restoration  to 
health  which  I  had  enjoyed.  As  time  passed  and 
I  became  familiar  with  Brehmer's  work,  I  decided 
to  test  his  rest  and  open-air  methods  at  the 
same  time  that  I  was  helping  my  patients  finan- 
cially, and  thus  the  two  main  features  in  the  policy 
of  the  proposed  institution  became  fixed  in  my 
mind.  It  was  not  only  to  be  charitable  in  its 
intent,  but  it  was  to  attempt  to  arrest  and  cure 
the  disease  as  well. 

Up  to  the  time  I  opened  the  Sanitarium  no 
institution  had  been  presumptuous  enough  to 
try  to  undertake  anything  beyond  offering  the 
consumptive  a  home  where  he  might  be  cared 
for  during  his  last  days.  For  this  reason  all 
types  of  cases,  and  patients  in  any  stage  of  the 
disease  were  admitted  to  those  hospitals.  In 
fact,  it  was  a  general  belief  that  a  patient  was  not 
to  go  to  a  consumptives'  hospital  until  so  ill 
that  he  could  no  longer  care  for  himself. 

I  realized  at  once  that  if  I  was  to  try  to  obtain 
curative  results  I  must  confine  the  admission  of 
patients  to  incipient  and  favorable  cases  as 
much  as  possible,  and  refuse  to  take  the  acute 
and  far-advanced  ones.  This  brought  me  any 
amount  of  criticism  from  physicians  who  thought 
I  was  trying  to  make  a  personal  reputation  for 
myself  for  cures  by  treating  only  selected  cases. 

(243) 


Even  now  much  dissatisfaction  and  bitterness 
is  shown  against  the  Sanitarium  by  both  physi- 
cians and  patients  when  the  appHcant  is  refused 
admission  as  an  unsuitable  case.  I  have  learned, 
however,  that  unjust  criticism  is  inevitable  in 
this  world,  and  must  be  borne  calmly  so  long  as 
one's  conscience  is  clear. 

In  the  early  days  I  used  to  take  physicians 
through  the  Sanitarium,  and  after  they  had  visited 
most  of  the  cottages  they  would  occasionally 
ask  me  facetiously  if  there  was  anything  the 
matter  with  any  of  the  people  I  had  shown  them. 
Nevertheless,  if  there  is  one  thing  we  have  learned 
since  those  early  days  when  I  framed  the  policy 
of  the  Sanitarium,  it  is  that  the  keynote  of  suc- 
cessful treatment  is  the  early  detection  of  the 
disease.  The  tuberculin  test,  the  X-rays  and  the 
autopsy  table  all  confirm  the  well-observed  facts 
which  prove  that  after  forty  years  of  age  most 
human  beings  have  at  some  time  in  their  lives 
had  a  little  tuberculosis  and  recovered  from  it 
without  ever  having  been  aware  of  its  presence. 
After  the  disease  has  gone  beyond  a  certain  stage, 
or  is  of  an  acute  type,  sanatorium  or  any  other 
known  treatment  may  prolong  life,  but  it  rarely 
brings  about  a  permanent  or  even  a  satisfactory 
arrest. 

Through  all  those  years  when  I  examined  appli- 
cants for  the  Sanitarium,  the  hardest  thing  I 
had  to  do  was  to  refuse  patients  admission;  but 
I  persisted  in  so  doing,  because  I  knew  that  the 

(244) 


opportunities  which  the  institution  offered  for 
restoring  the  tuberculous  to  any  degree  of  health 
would  be  wasted  unless  discrimination  and  skill 
in  the  selection  of  the  cases  were  exercised.  The 
limitations  of  sanatorium  treatment  have  been 
recognized  by  State  institutions  and  by  most 
sanatoria  whose  aim  is  to  restore  as  many  patients 
as  possible  to  a  life  of  usefulness,  and  separate 
institutions  have  been  created  for  the  advanced 
cases. 

Refusing  admission  was  ever  a  sore  trial  to  me, 
as  no  doubt  it  is  now  to  my  associates  who  shoul- 
der the  onus  of  these  thankless  and  unpaid  exami- 
nations in  my  place.  I  used  to  try  to  help  those 
whom  I  had  refused,  and  who  usually  settled  down 
at  some  boarding  place  in  the  village,  by  seeing 
them  as  often  as  possible  in  my  office,  and  at  their 
boarding  places,  without  making  any  charge. 
This  all  grew  to  be  a  heavy  burden,  from  which 
I  was  relieved  in  time  by  Dr.  Baldwin,  Dr.  Charles 
C.  Trembley,  Dr.  David  C.  Twichell,  Dr.  W. 
H.  Jamieson  and  Dr.  Lawrason  Brown,  and  later 
by  Dr.  Brown's  organization  of  the  Examination 
Office  in  the  village. 

In  New  York  Dr.  James  Alexander  Miller  and 
Dr.  Linsly  R.  Williams  have  borne  for  many 
years  the  thankless,  unpaid  and  most  exacting 
task  of  examining  patients  for  the  Sanitarium, 
which  involves  their  refusal  of  about  five  out  of 
six  applicants,  and  Dr.  Henry  James  and  Dr. 
Frederick    J.    Barrett    have    more    recently    also 

(245) 


fallen  heir  to  this  unremunerative  service  in 
New  York  to  the  Sanitarium.  In  other  cities, 
Dr.  Francis  H.  Williams  and  Dr.  Cleaveland 
Floyd  in  Boston,  Dr.  J.  C.  Wilson  in  Philadelphia, 
and  Dr.  H.  M.  Thomas  and  Dr.  Louis  Hamman 
in  Baltimore,  have  cheerfully  shouldered  the 
same  burden  to  help  the  tuberculous. 

Besides  the  unpaid  services  which  my  associates 
have  ever  rendered  the  rejected  cases  that  can- 
not gain  admission  to  the  Sanitarium,  an  agency 
for  their  relief  has  for  many  years  done  noble 
work  for  the  advanced  cases — a  field  which  few 
have  the  courage  to  deal  with.  I  refer  to  the 
Reception  Hospital. 

In  the  late  nineties  I  had  a  patient,  Miss  Mary 
R.  Prescott,  who  has  long  ago  become  a  very 
dear  friend  to  my  wife  and  to  me,  and  who 
recovered  her  health  completely  in  Saranac  Lake. 
With  her  return  to  health,  her  active  mind  and 
warm  heart  chafed  under  the  ease  and  enforced 
inactivity  of  a  well-to-do  patient's  life,  and  in 
spite  of  her  restored  strength  her  spirits  began  to 
flag  and  life  to  seem  meaningless  to  her.  I  saw  at 
once  that  what  she  needed  was  an  active  interest 
of  some  kind,  and  as  she  had  ample  means,  I 
suggested  that  she  hire  a  cottage,  put  a  nurse  in 
charge,  and  start  a  little  hospital  of  her  own, 
where  a  few  advanced  cases,  and  those  who 
were  refused  admission  to  the  Sanitarium  and 
needed  rest  in  bed  and  nursing,  could  be  taken 
and  cared  for  at  a  nominal  cost.     I  told  her  I 

(246) 


knew  Dr.  Baldwin  and  some  of  the  other  physi- 
cians would  gladly  do  the  medical  work;  and  thus 
she  would  bring  relief  and  encouragement  to  a 
class  of  invalids  in  sore  need  of  it,  for  whom 
little  or  nothing  was  being  done. 

She  at  once  became  interested  in  the  plan, 
hired  a  cottage,  placed  a  nurse  in  charge  and 
cared  for  four  patients  at  first,  at  a  nominal  cost 
to  them  of  six  or  seven  dollars  per  week.  Dr. 
Baldwin  and  some  of  the  younger  physicians 
volunteered  their  services  in  visiting  the  patients 
without  remuneration;  and  this  was  the  starting- 
point  of  the  Reception  Hospital,  which  Miss 
Prescott  built  in  1905.  She  raised  a  good  share 
of  the  funds  for  building  and  equipping  the 
institution  by  appeals  to  her  personal  friends, 
and  supplemented  this  from  her  own  purse. 
She  has  herself  met  the  deficit  in  running  expenses 
ever  since,  asking  the  public  to  help  her  only  to 
accumulate  a  free-bed  fund  for  the  destitute. 
Dr.  E.  R.  Baldwin  has  directed  the  medical  work 
ever  since  the  institution  was  opened. 

The  Reception  Hospital  is  a  model  of  its  kind 
in  plan,  construction  and  equipment,  with  its 
cheery  rooms,  its  sleeping-out  porches,  and  its 
atmosphere  of  home.  The  devoted  souls  who 
preside  over  this  abode  of  cheer  and  peace 
are  two  Canadian  trained  nurses.  Miss  Sophie 
Hoerner,  who  took  charge  of  Miss  Prescott's 
first  little  cottage,  and  Miss  Ethel  Mathias. 
Under  their  ministrations,  many   a   storm-tossed 

(247) 


and  discouraged  human  being  has  here  found 
welcome,  cheer  and  good  nursing,  while  the 
doctors  have  ever  given  them  most  skilful  medical 
care.  A  certain  number  of  patients,  after  a  time, 
are  found  to  be  favorable  for  admission  to  the 
Sanitarium. 

For  the  Reception  Hospital,  as  for  the  Sani- 
tarium, there  is  always  a  waiting  list;  and  this 
illustrates  the  magnitude  of  the  tuberculosis 
problem. 

In  the  upbuilding  and  supporting  of  her  admi- 
rable charity,  Miss  Prescott's  bank  account  has 
been  steadily  and  often  heavily  taxed;  but  her 
unrest  and  depression  have  long  ago  vanished, 
and  her  life  of  helpfulness  to  others  has  been  full 
of  keen  interest,  satisfaction  and  peace. 

During  these  years  I  did  much  hard  medical 
work,  especially  in  the  summer  seasons.  When  the 
Sanitarium  and  Saranac  Lake  began  to  attract  the 
attention  of  the  medical  profession,  I  was  about  the 
only  specialist  in  Saranac  Lake  until  Dr.  Baldwin 
and  some  of  my  other  associates  became  well 
known,  and  all  the  patients,  rich  and  poor,  came 
straight  to  my  house  and  insisted  upon  seeing 
me.  At  certain  seasons  almost  every  train  would 
bring  someone  who  wanted  to  consult  me  or 
wanted  to  go  to  the  Sanitarium. 

Saranac  Lake  and  the  Sanitarium  were  looked 
upon  as  a  new  treatment,  and  a  new  treatment 
in  tuberculosis  has  always  been  synonymous 
with  a  new  hope.     For  this  reason  both  the  sick 

(248) 


and  their  doctors  wanted  to  make  a  trial  of  the 
climate,  the  Sanitarium,  and  the  new  rest  methods 
which  I  advocated. 

So  it  came  about  that  for  several  years  I  was 
deluged  with  patients  of  all  kinds.  Unfortunately 
I  never  was  educated  to  do  things  with  system 
and  I  didn't  know  how;  so  I  just  waded  in  and 
worked,  and  did  all  I  could  as  best  I  could  without 
any  system  or  in  any  way  limiting  my  hours. 
The  result  was  that  I  no  doubt  slighted  some 
of  the  work  in  my  attempt  to  please  everybody 
and  see  every  patient  whenever  he  wanted  to 
see  me.  I  wore  myself  out  thoroughly.  I 
can  even  now  remember  with  dread  some  of 
the  terribly  long  office  hours  during  the  summer 
months  when  I  came  over  from  Paul  Smith's 
for  consultations. 

Everybody  in  the  village  always  had  a  curious 
idea  that  the  three  months  I  spent  at  Paul  Smith's 
were  entirely  a  holiday  for  me,  but  nothing  was 
further  from  the  truth.  For  twenty-five  years 
I  did  all  the  summer  practice  at  Paul  Smith's 
and  in  the  camps,  and  though  this  was  at  times 
pretty  strenuous  I  was  glad  to  have  it,  as  it 
helped  very  materially  to  meet  the  growing 
expenses  of  my  family,  toward  which,  of  course, 
the  Sanitarium  and  the  Laboratory  contributed 
nothing. 

Besides,  it  was  from  among  my  patients  at  Paul 
Smith's  that  I  made  the  friends  who  gave  so 
largely   toward   the  yearly   running   expenses  of 

(249) 


the  Sanitarium  as  well  as  toward  its  growth  and 
development. 

On  two  days  each  week  I  went  to  Saranac  Lake 
for  consultation  hours  in  my  office,  and  those 
two  days  were  active  indeed.  After  doing 
what  was  necessary  at  Paul  Smith's,  often  having 
to  get  up  at  an  early  hour  to  accomplish  this, 
my  wife  and  I  would  start  at  eleven  o'clock  in 
an  open  buggy  (I  never  had  a  top  buggy),  and 
drive  over  to  Saranac  Lake,  fourteen  miles,  often 
through  intense  heat  or  storm,  reaching  there 
after  one  o'clock.  My  office  hour  was  at  two, 
but  often  by  the  time  we  arrived  my  waiting 
room,  the  piazza,  and  even  the  lawn,  were  fre- 
quently occupied  by  the  patients.  A  hasty 
lunch,  and  then  five  hours  of  office  work!  Rich 
and  poor,  young  and  old,  were  in  that  waiting 
crowd,  and  by  seven  o'clock  I  usually  managed 
to  see  all  of  them  and  give  them  some  sort  of 
advice  as  to  their  cases  and  their  mode  of  life. 
I  am  sure  toward  the  end  of  those  long  hours 
I  must  have  slighted  my  work,  for  I  could 
hardly  keep  my  mind  on  the  patients'  cases, 
and  I  was  numb  with  mental  and  physical 
exhaustion. 

The  waiting  room,  which  one  lady  always 
spoke  of  as  my  "menagerie"  must  have  impressed 
others,  for  on  going  into  the  patients'  cottages 
at  the  Sanitarium  one  day  I  came  across  an 
excellent  caricature  of  myself  which  a  patient, 
the   Reverend   Mr.   Westcott,   a   brother  of   the 

(250) 


author  of  David  Harum,  had  drawn.  I  was 
depicted  sitting  behind  a  high  picket  fence  with 
a  double-barreled  shot-gun  on  my  lap,  waving 
back  an  excited  crowd  who  were  all  shouting 
impossible  questions  at  me  about  their  health, 
while  underneath  was  written,  "The  Penalty  of 
Fame!"  The  thing  struck  me  as  so  funny  that 
I  begged  it  of  him,  and  I  still  have  it  as  a  remem- 
brance of  those  strenuous  office  hours. 

Of  course,  through  all  the  monotony,  weariness 
and  pathos  of  the  long  office  hours,  I  had  many 
interesting  experiences,  saw  many  queer  people, 
and  learned  much  of  human  nature  when  under 
the  strain  of  disease,  and  often  of  poverty  as  well. 
Patients  often  tried  to  deceive  me  and  test  me  in 
many  ways.  I  remember  once  I  was  examining 
a  man,  when,  after  he  had  removed  his  clothes, 
I  found  his  right  side  painted  nearly  black  with 
iodine,  while  only  in  the  left  lung  could  I  find 
signs  of  disease.  I  asked  him  why  he  had  painted 
his  right  side  when  the  trouble  was  on  the  left. 
His  only  answer  was  a  smile  and,  "Well,  I  wanted 
to  see  whether  you  would  know!" 

Many  of  the  women  objected  to  removing  their 
waists  and  undervests  when  I  examined  their 
chests,  and  I  had  to  plead  with  them,  when  every 
moment  was  precious,  as  to  the  absolute  necessity 
of  their  doing  so  if  they  wanted  me  to  find  out 
what  was  the  matter.  It  often  taxed  my  patience 
when  some  middle-aged  spinster,  upon  being 
implored  to  "remove  her  things,"  would  unbutton 

(251) 


the  top  button  of  her  dress  and  then  refuse  to 
unbutton  the  next  until  I  had  exhausted  my 
breath  and  eloquence,  and  ten  or  fifteen  valuable 
minutes  had  been  wasted  before  I  could  begin 
my  examination.  Fortunately  the  thing  happened 
rarely.  Then  occasionally,  though  not  often,  I 
had  the  other  experience.  I  remember  once  a 
young  woman,  a  reporter  for  some  paper,  who 
came  in  after  office  hours  were  over  and  wanted 
to  be  examined.  I  was  writing  at  the  time,  was 
tired  and  anxious  to  get  through,  so  I  told  her 
I  would  examine  her  if  she  would  step  behind  me 
and  take  off  her  things  quickly.  I  kept  on  writing 
while  she  began  undressing  behind  me,  and  when 
I  turned  around  with  my  stethoscope  in  my  ears, 
she  had  taken  off  all  her  clothes! 

I  remember  after  one  unusually  long  afternoon 
I  was  tired  out  and  irritable.  I  thought  the  last 
patient  had  been  disposed  of  and  I  was  through, 
when  I  looked  out  and  saw  a  wretched  man 
waiting;  so  I  opened  the  door,  and  in  no  very 
pleasant  tone  told  him  to  walk  in.  He  was  a 
tall,  emaciated  tramp,  the  picture  of  the  last 
stages  of  pulmonary  tuberculosis,  and  my  heart 
softened.  He  sat  down,  put  his  hands  in  his 
pocket  and  stared  at  me. 

"Be  you  Dr.  Trudeau?"  I  said,  "Yes."  "Well 
now  you  don't  look  none  like  a  doctor;  you  look 
like  one  of  them  bicycle  fellows!"  The  change 
in  my  habits  from  hunter  to  physician  had  not 
yet   made    me   discard    the   knickerbockers   and 

(252) 


leather  leggings  of  hunting  days,  and  it  was  my 
costume  that  called  forth  his  remark. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "what  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"What  is  the  matter  with  me!  Why,  can't 
you  see  I  am  almost  dead  with  the  consumption?" 

He  was  certainly  plain  spoken.  He  told  me  he 
had  been  sent  to  one  of  the  large  tuberculosis 
hospitals  of  Brooklyn. 

"But  I  looked  about  me,"  he  said,  "and  sized 
things  up  a  bit.  There  were  about  fifty  sick 
'blokes'  in  that  ward,  and  after  I  had  been  there 
three  days  and  seen  many  carried  out  feet  first, 
I  realized  that  that  was  what  was  going  to  happen 
to  me  soon  if  I  did  not  get  out  of  that  place,  so  I 
lit  out.  I  had  heard  speak  in  that  ward  of  you 
and  Saranac  Lake,  and  that  you  ran  a  place  where 
people  really  did  get  well  if  they  wasn't  too  far 
gone,  so  I  made  up  my  mind  to  strike  out 
for  Saranac  Lake.  I  hadn't  a  cent  and  I  was 
pretty  weak,  but  I  begged  enough  for  a  fare  to 
Yonkers,  and  when  I  got  there  I  went  down  the 
street  and  rang  every  door-bell,  and  begged  cold 
victuals  until  I  got  something  to  eat;  but  I  was 
soon  rounded  up  and  put  in  the  poor-house.  When 
they  had  looked  me  over,  however,  they  made 
up  their  minds  I  was  likely  to  die  on  their  hands, 
and  that  it  would  be  cheaper  to  buy  me  a  ticket 
to  the  next  place  and  let  me  die  on  someone  else's 
hands,  so  they  gave  me  a  ticket  and  packed  me 
off,  and  in  that  way  I  finally  got  here.  Now  what 
can  you  do  for  me.  Doctor?" 

(253) 


What  a  tale!  My  horse  was  waiting  at  the 
door,  so  I  told  this  poor  fellow  I  would  take  him 
to  some  cheap  boarding  place  and  would  see  him 
through  until  I  could  think  of  something  else  to 
do.  He  got  in  the  wagon,  and  I  asked  him  "What 
has  brought  you  to  this — drink?"  "Oh,  no, 
Doctor.  I  have  tried  to  drink  several  times,  but 
it  don't  agree  with  me." 

He  never  uttered  any  complaint,  but  took  his 
hard  fate  as  rather  a  curious  experience.  He 
decided  he  could  support  himself  by  selling  fruit; 
so  through  my  telling  of  his  wants  to  some  of 
my  patients,  he  got  enough  money  to  build  a 
little  rough-board  shanty  on  a  vacant  lot.  There 
he  slept  on  a  straw  bed,  and  the  hotel  proprietor 
allowed  him  to  come  for  scraps  off  the  table,  on 
which  he  lived  quite  contentedly  all  summer. 
He  remained  eighteen  months  and  improved  in 
health.  He  supported  himself  entirely,  and  was 
a  most  interesting  and  grateful  patient.  I  used 
to  take  him  about  with  me  in  the  wagon  occasion- 
ally while  making  my  calls.  One  night  he  sud- 
denly disappeared  from  Saranac  Lake,  and  I  have 
never  heard  a  word  from  him  since.  The  only 
inkling  I  had  of  his  reason  for  going  was  his 
telling  me  that  he  thought  it  was  getting  too  cold 
for  him,  and  that  he  would  prefer  wintering  in 
the  South.  I  have  often  wondered  how  he  man- 
aged to  get  South,  but  I  don't  doubt  he  accom- 
plished it. 

(254) 


XXI 

THE  summer  after  Chatte's  death  we  spent  in 
our  camp  at  Paul  Smith's  as  usual,  cuid  I  threw 
myself  unreservedly  into  the  medical  work  there, 
at  the  Sanitarium,  and  in  Saranac  Lake.  I  had 
not  been  at  all  well  since  Chatte's  death.  All 
the  summer  I  was  nervous  and  sleepless,  had 
constant  headaches  and  was  tired  most  of  the 
time;  and  when  we  went  back  to  Saranac  Lake 
for  the  winter  I  was  feeling  wretched.  Dr. 
Baldwin  was  working  away  in  the  Laboratory 
every  day,  and  we  were  trying  experiments  in 
making  different  kinds  of  tuberculin  then,  and 
studying  their  effect  on  animals.  I  spent  much 
time  working  there  with  him,  often  until  late  at 
night. 

We  went  to  town,  as  usual,  at  the  beginning 
of  November.  Our  little  cottage  was  closed — all 
but  the  laboratory  end — and  Dr.  Baldwin,  whose 
house  was  across  the  street,  worked  there  daily 
and  kept  the  cultures  and  experiments  going 
while  I  was  away.  We  stopped  in  New  York  at 
a  little  apartment  hotel,  where  I  got  accommoda- 
tions reasonably,  and  we  were  engaged  as  usual 
in  seeing  our  friends  and  enjoying  our  visit,  when 

(255) 


one  night  I  was  taken  suddenly  with  a  violent 
chill,  followed  by  a  very  high  temperature,  and 
within  a  few  hours  I  was  more  acutely  ill  than  I 
had  ever  been  before.  My  friend,  Dr.  Walton, 
came  to  see  me  and  called  in  Dr.  Loomis.  They 
got  me  a  nurse,  and  for  a  long  time  the  diagnosis 
was  very  obscure.  I  believe  they  finally  decided 
I  had  an  abscess  of  the  kidney,  but  it  was  a 
painful  attack,  and  although  I  lived  through 
it  I  never  recovered  from  it,  and  it  has  never 
ceased  to  harass  and  disturb  me  more  or  less, 
so  that  I  have  never  slept  more  than  an  hour 
or  two  at  a  time  ever  since.  At  any  rate  it  was 
something  new  and  was  not  my  lungs  this  time. 
I  had  a  good  trained  nurse  from  the  Presby- 
terian Hospital,  but  for  weeks  the  fever  continued 
high  and  the  diagnosis  obscure. 

It  was  during  the  first  week  of  the  attack  that 
one  morning  at  nine  o'clock  there  was  a  rap  at 
the  door,  and  my  wife  was  told  there  was  a  gentle- 
man downstairs  in  the  parlor  who  wanted  to  see 
her.  After  she  left  the  room  I  wondered  who 
the  gentleman  could  be  and  what  he  wanted  at 
that  time  in  the  morning.  My  wife  went  down- 
stairs, and  there  she  met  Dr.  Loomis,  who  said 
he  had  just  had  a  telegram  from  Dr.  Baldwin 
saying  my  little  laboratory  lamp  had  set  fire  to 
my  house  at  four  o'clock  that  morning,  and  that 
the  house  and  its  contents  were  a  total  loss.  Dr. 
Loomis  told  my  wife  I  was  entirely  too  sick  to 
be  told  what  had  happened,  but  he  felt  she  ought 

(256) 


to  know.  As  usual,  my  wife  faced  the  shock 
squarely.  She  said  she  always  told  me  everything; 
that  if  she  tried  to  hide  it  I  would  be  sure  to  find 
out  something  was  the  matter,  and  that  she 
thought  it  would  be  better  for  Dr.  Loomis  to  come 
in  and  tell  me  at  once,  and  finally  he  agreed. 

When  the  nurse  opened  the  door  I  wondered 
why  Dr.  Loomis  had  left  his  office  at  nine  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  but  I  could  see  he  looked  very 
solemn  and  I  realized  something  had  happened. 
In  an  instant  the  thought  flashed  through  my 
mind  that  Ned,  who  had  gone  to  Yale,  was  dead. 
Dr.  Loomis  had  a  telegram  in  his  hand,  and  as 
he  came  to  my  bedside  he  said,  "Trudeau,  I  have 
bad  news  for  you.  Dr.  Baldwin  has  just  wired 
me  your  house  was  entirely  destroyed  by  a  fire 
originating  from  the  little  lamp  in  the  Laboratory; 
very  little  was  saved."  I  had  expected  to  hear 
Ned  was  dead,  and  the  news  was  rather  a  relief 
than  a  shock.  I  said,  "I  am  so  glad  that  is  all. 
We  can  get  another  house."  Dr.  Loomis  looked 
much  relieved  and  soon  left. 

I  thought  of  Baldwin's  responsibility  and 
anxiety,  and  wired  him  not  to  worry  about  the 
house  or  the  Laboratory;  as  soon  as  I  could  get 
well  we  would  build  another.  In  a  letter  received 
the  next  day  from  him  he  gave  me  the  details.  All 
was  well  that  night  when  he  left  the  Labora- 
tory at  ten  o'clock.  He  woke  at  four  in  the 
morning  to  see  a  red  glow  at  his  window,  and 
on  looking  out  he  saw  the  fire  coming   through 

(257) 


the  roof  of  my  house.  The  little  flame  in  my 
new  thermostat  had  no  doubt  jumped  behind 
the  roller  and  set  fire  to  the  wooden  stand,  as 
the  Laboratory  burned  before  the  rest  of  the 
house.  A  few  rugs  and  pictures  and  a  little  fur- 
niture were  saved  from  the  lower  floor,  but  every- 
thing else  was  destroyed.  Among  other  things, 
my  precious  pen- written  translation  of  Koch's 
paper,  and  the  set  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's 
works,  bound  specially  for  me,  in  each  volume 
of  which  he  had  written  the  autograph  dedication 
to  each  member  of  my  family  and  to  me. 

Telegrams,  letters  of  condolence  and  cheer, 
and  offers  of  help  poured  in  for  the  next  few  days 
from  many  friends.  One  brief  but  striking  note 
from  my  good  friend  Dr.  William  Osier,  who 
often  had  helped,  cheered  and  encouraged  me 
with  my  work,  was  characteristic  and  to  the 
point.    This  was  the  entire  letter: 

"Dear  Trudeau: 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  of  your  misfortune,  but  take 
my  word  for  it,  there  is  nothing  like  a  fire  to  make 
a  man  do  the  Phoenix  trick." 

As  I  read  it,  little  did  I  realize  how  soon  Dr. 
Osier's  prophecy  was  to  be  fulfilled. 

Our  good  friends,  the  Coopers,  called  constantly 
at  the  hotel,  and  as  soon  as  I  was  well  enough  to 
see  anyone  Mr.  Cooper  came  to  see  me.  After 
talking  a  little  while  he  looked  embarrassed  and  said : 

(258) 


"  I  am  sorry  about  the  Laboratory  and  the  house, 
and  I  want  to  do  something  about  it.  You  have 
no  house  to  go  to  when  you  return.  I  have  a 
lease  of  the  cottage  opposite  your  house;  just  as 
soon  as  you  are  well  enough  to  go  back  you  can 
have  that  cottage  for  as  long  a  time  as  you  want 
it.  As  to  the  Laboratory,  I  want  you  to  begin 
to  plan  a  good  stone  and  steel  laboratory;  one 
that  will  never  bum  up.  Plan  it  just  as  you  want 
it,  complete,  and  I  will  be  glad  to  pay  for  it  and 
give  it  to  you  personally." 

Laughing  and  coughing  and  bowing,  Mr.  Cooper 
then  beat  a  hasty  retreat,  leaving  me  overcome 
by  this  evidence  of  his  friendly  interest  in  me  and 
in  my  work.  Dr.  Osier  was  indeed  a  true  prophet, 
for  the  ink  on  his  letter  had  scarcely  had  time 
to  dry  when  a  fire-proof  laboratory  was  assured 
to  me,  before  the  ashes  of  the  burned  one  were 
cold!  It  was  the  following  evening  that  Dr. 
Hodenpyl  brought  me  the  microscope  from  the 
men  at  the  College  Laboratory  and  all  this  cheered 
me  and  encouraged  me  greatly. 

My  illness  in  New  York  continued  a  long  time, 
and  it  was  many  weeks  before  I  could  get  out  of 
bed  and  sit  up.  Our  many  friends,  among  them 
Mr.  Cooper  and  his  sisters,  were  unremitting  in 
their  attentions.  The  Cooper  carriage  was  at 
our  disposal,  and  my  wife  got  some  fresh  air  in 
this  way.  The  Misses  Cooper  made  us  promise 
that  just  as  soon  as  I  could  be  moved  we  should 
all  be  taken  to  their  beautiful  house  in  Twenty- 

(259) 


first  Street,  so  my  wife  and  I,  with  Francis  and  his 
nurse,  were  soon  established  in  most  luxurious 
quarters  in  Gramercy  Park,  and  Francis  played 
in  the  park  all  day.  No  friends  could  have  done 
more  that  they  did  to  nurse  me  back  to  life,  and 
as  soon  as  I  was  able  to  travel,  which  was  quite 
late  in  December,  we  all  returned  to  Saranac  Lake 
and  occupied  the  Cooper  cottage. 

All  that  was  left  of  our  former  home  was  a 
chimney  stack,  the  rest  having  been  burned  to 
the  ground.  Before  long,  however,  my  wife  and 
I  were  planning  a  new  home,  and  Baldwin  and  I 
a  new  laboratory,  both  of  which  my  cousin, 
Lawrence  Aspinwall,  was  designing  for  us. 

We  couldn't  make  up  our  minds  to  stop  the 
experiments  altogether  until  the  new  stone  lab- 
oratory was  built,  which  would  naturally  be 
many  months,  so  I  put  up  a  little  shed  next  to 
my  bam.  A  water  pipe  was  carried  to  it,  a  big 
stove  put  up,  and  before  very  long  we  had  another 
thermostat  and  the  cultures  and  experiments 
were  going  on  as  usual.  The  money  for  labora- 
tory purposes  ran  out,  but  thanks  to  checks  from 
Mr.  John  Garrett  and  Mr.  Horatio  Garrett  and 
Mrs.  Robert  Hoe,  I  was  able  to  get  what  apparatus 
we  needed,  and  pay  for  animals,  chemicals,  and 
glassware. 

Our  house  was  insured  for  a  moderate  sum, 
but  when  the  insurance  men  had  made  their  visit 
to  the  ruins  and  had  had  one  or  two  conferences, 
the  agent  called  on  me  and  told  me  I  had  entirely 

(260) 


forfeited  my  insurance,  first  by  leaving  the  house 
untenanted  without  permission,  and  also  by  leav- 
ing a  kerosene  lamp  burning  there  constantly 
when  no  one  was  in  the  house.  This  I  expected; 
and  I  was  much  surprised  when  he  added  that 
all  over  the  country  my  loss  had  become  known, 
and  that  much  indignation  had  been  shown  when 
it  was  given  out  that  the  insurance  companies 
considered  the  insurance  forfeited,  and  much 
sympathy  was  expressed.  He  said  the  insurance 
companies  had  decided  they  would  pay  my  insur- 
ance, provided  I  would  write  them  a  note  they 
could  publish  stating  that  they  had  treated  me 
most  liberally.  This  I  was  very  glad  to  do,  and 
they  paid  every  cent,  which  was  a  great  help 
toward  building  the  new  house. 


(261) 


XXII 

WE  moved  out  of  Mr.  Cooper's  cottage  into 
the  rectory  cottage  in  February,  and  there 
we  remained  until  the  spring,  when  we  went  to 
Paul  Smith's  as  usual.  During  the  summer  there 
I  worked  hard  and  my  health  was  very  miserable, 
as  I  was  still  suffering  from  my  New  York  illness 
from  which  I  recovered  very  slowly.  Indeed,  I  have 
never  recovered  from  it;  and  it  gradually  wore  on 
my  general  health  to  such  an  extent  that  the  pul- 
monary symptoms,  with  the  intermittent  attacks 
of  low  fever,  returned,  and  between  the  two  I 
have  been  an  invalid  for  the  past  ten  years. 

While  at  Paul  Smith's  I  did  all  I  could  every 
summer  to  interest  new  people  in  the  Sanitarium 
and  keep  up  the  interest  of  my  old  friends,  for  the 
responsibility  of  raising  the  money  for  the  needs 
of  the  growing  institution  and  of  continuing  its 
development  weighed  a  good  deal  on  me. 

It  was  in  1894  that  I  first  met  Mr.  Samuel 
Inslee  at  Paul  Smith's,  when  he  consulted  me 
for  a  trifling  illness.  He  was  a  successful  business 
man,  with  a  big  heart,  ready  to  help  all  about 
him;  and  as  he  listened  with  interest  to  what 
I  told  him  about  the  Sanitarium,  I  asked  him  if 

(263) 


he  would  drive  over  with  me  some  day  and  look 
at  it.  This  he  readily  agreed  to  do,  and  when 
we  reached  the  Sanitarium  he  made  me  show 
him  everything.  On  the  way  home  he  said  to 
me,  "What  is  there  that  you  want  that  nobody 
else  will  give  you?"  I  answered,  "We  have  no 
laundry,  and  certainly  nobody  wants  to  give  me 
a  laundry."  He  said  if  one  thousand  dollars 
would  build  a  little  laundry  he  would  give  it, 
and  I  was  well  satisfied  with  my  day's  trip  with 
him.  We  built  the  little  laundry  and  it  served 
its  day;  and  now,  after  twenty-one  years,  we 
are  building  another,  a  cement,  steel  and  slate 
building,  which,  with  all  the  needed  modern 
machinery,  will  cost  nearly  twice  as  many  thou- 
sands as  our  first  little  wooden  laundry  did  hun- 
dreds; but  it  will  be  more  than  one  lifetime 
before  my  successors  will  have  to  worry  about 
building  another. 

The  next  year  I  repeated  my  trip  to  the  Sani- 
tarium with  Mr.  Inslee,  and  he  went  over  every- 
thing in  the  institution  and  criticised  what  he 
could  find  to  criticise.  Then  he  repeated  the  same 
question  as  the  year  before,  "What  do  you  need 
most  that  no  one  is  likely  to  give  you?"  and  I 
said,  "Water-works  and  fire  protection."  "Very 
well,"  he  said,  "I  will  give  them;  and  in  order 
that  you  may  not  have  any  care  about  it,  I  will 
send  my  own  engineer  to  oversee  the  work." 

The  engineer  came.  It  was  found  that  a  trench 
six  feet  deep,  often  traversing  hard  pan  and  rock 

(264) 


for  long  distances,  would  have  to  be  dug  for  nearly 
a  mile  in  order  to  carry  a  large  main  to  connect 
with  the  splendid  water- works  of  Saranac  Lake; 
but  Mr.  Inslee  paid  for  it  all,  and  during  the 
summer  drove  over  himself  many  times  and 
superintended  the  work.  I  don't  know  just  what 
the  fine  water-works  and  fire  protection  at  the 
Sanitarium  cost  Mr.  Inslee,  but  I  know  the 
expense  of  the  ditching  and  the  mains  reached 
the  sum  of  over  ten  thousand  dollars.  It  has 
given  us  an  abundant  supply  of  pure  water,  with 
all  that  that  means. 

The  following  year  Mr.  Inslee  died  suddenly 
of  pneumonia  and  the  Sanitarium  lost  a  good 
friend.  His  brother,  Mr.  Edwin  W.  Inslee,  erected 
a  cottage  to  his  memory  in  1897. 

When  we  returned  to  Saranac  Lake  in  the  fall  of 
1894  we  occupied  our  new  house,  which  had  just 
been  completed,  and  we  have  lived  there  ever  since. 

During  the  spring  and  summer  of  1894  work 
had  been  steadily  progressing  on  the  new  Labora- 
tory Mr.  Cooper  was  building  for  me,  and  by 
fall  it  was  nearly  completed.  I  facilitated  matters 
somewhat  by  presenting  the  land  on  which  it 
was  placed,  which  was  part  of  my  house  lot  on 
Church  Street.  This  situation  was  convenient 
for  Dr.  Baldwin  and  for  me;  it  was  central,  and  it 
has  proved  an  excellent  site  in  every  respect. 
The  building  is  a  most  substantial  and  dignified 
structure.  As  nothing  but  cut  stone,  glazed  brick, 
slate,  steel  and  cement  entered  into  its  composi- 

(265) 


tion,  it  is  absolutely  fire-proof  and  it  has  not 
been  necessary  to  insure  it.  The  inside  is  all 
finished  in  white,  glazed  brick,  and  it  looks  abso- 
lutely indestructible — as  if  it  were  built  not  for 
time  but  for  eternity!  The  Phoenix  trick  will  not 
have  to  be  repeated  soon  so  far  as  the  building 
is  concerned.  It  is  equipped  with  fine,  self -regu- 
lating thermostats,  gas,  electricity,  and  every 
modern  appliance  for  facilitating  laboratory  work. 
No  name  has  been  written  on  the  outside  of 
this  compact  little  structure  to  indicate  its  uses, 
but  in  the  inner  hall,  over  the  door  of  the  main 
room,  a  small  brass  inscription  has  been  placed, 
which  reads: 

Saranac  Laboratory 

for  the  Study  of  Tuberculosis 

Erected  a.d.,  1894. 

Presented  to 

Edward  L.  Trudeau,  M.D. 

by 

George  C.  Cooper. 

We  had  no  opening  ceremonies  and  never 
have  had  any.  When  everything  was  ready,  Bald- 
win and  I  merely  began  to  move  the  apparatus 
we  already  had  in  use  from  the  little  shed  near 
the  bam  to  our  beautiful  new  quarters,  and  to 
continue  the  work  we  were  doing.  This  was  the 
opening  of  the  first  laboratory  devoted  to  the 
study  of  tuberculosis  in  this  country. 

As  the  Laboratory  was  to  be  purely  a  research 
laboratory,  we  agreed  there  should  be  no  com- 
mercial side  to  it.     In   other  words,  no  labora- 

(  266  ) 


THE    SARANAC    LABORATORY 


tory  product  would  be  sold  under  any  conditions; 
and  this  rule  has  been  adhered  to  all  these 
years,  during  which  constant  applications  have 
been  made  from  many  sources  to  purchase  cul- 
tures, tuberculins,  serums,  etc.  If  the  demand 
comes  from  a  known  source  for  purely  scien- 
tific purposes,  it  is  always  acceded  to  and  the 
required  material  sent  free;  otherwise  the  request 
is  refused. 

The  finances  proved  a  difficult  problem  for 
me  to  meet  for  a  long  time,  as  the  Laboratory 
had  no  endowment  of  any  kind;  but  thanks 
to  the  help,  from  time  to  time,  of  my  friends, 
among  whom  were  Mr.  Horatio  Garrett,  Mr. 
John  Garrett,  Mrs.  Robert  Hoe  and  Miss  Julia 
Cooper,  I  managed  to  eke  out  enough  money  to 
pay  for  our  animals,  chemicals  and  apparatus, 
and  continue  our  work,  until  my  good  friend 
Mrs.  A.  A.  Anderson,  came  to  my  help.  She 
gave  generous  checks  at  first,  and  finally  assumed, 
twelve  years  ago,  the  entire  support  of  my  Labora- 
tory herself,  and  has  paid  all  its  expenses  each 
year  ever  since,  to  my  intense  relief. 

Little  by  little  other  matters  in  my  practice 
and  at  the  Sanitarium  took  up  more  and  more 
of  my  time,  and  I  was  only  too  glad  to  place  the 
Laboratory  entirely  under  Dr.  Baldwin's  direc- 
tion; and  he  has  given  it  much  of  his  time,  his 
interest  and  his  work,  for  many  years  without 
remuneration.  During  the  paist  six  years  Dr. 
Allen  K.  Krause  has  relieved  him  of  all  routine 

(267) 


matters  at  the  Laboratory,  and  Dr.  Krause  has 
devoted  his  entire  time  to  researches  relating  to 
the  complex  problems  of  tuberculous  infection, 
and  to  keeping  up  the  other  branches  of  the 
Laboratory  work. 

Apart  from  the  researches  which  my  associates 
have  steadily  carried  out  and  published  during 
all  these  years,  the  Laboratory  has  had  a  strong 
educational  influence  on  the  many  physicians 
who  come  to  Saranac  Lake  for  their  health,  and 
has  offered  them  an  opportunity  for  study  which 
has  brought  them  together  and  created  a  keen 
interest  in  scientific  medicine  among  the  numerous 
doctors  here.  Physicians  who  are  staying  in 
Saranac  Lake,  even  temporarily,  and  are  disposed 
to  do  a  piece  of  work  meeting  with  the  approval 
of  Dr.  Baldwin  and  Dr.  Krause,  have  the  facili- 
ties of  the  Laboratory  placed  at  their  disposal 
and  are  assisted  in  carrying  out  their  work,  which 
of  course  they  are  free  to  publish  or  not,  as  they 
see  fit,  under  their  own  names. 

Besides  this,  the  Laboratory  has  inspired  the 
formation  of  a  medical  society  in  Saranac  Lake, 
which  meets  in  the  building  every  two  weeks 
during  the  winter,  and  where  papers  are  read  by 
some  of  the  most  distinguished  workers  in  the 
field  of  clinical  and  scientific  medicine,  who 
generously  come  on  invitation  for  this  purpose. 
These  meetings  bring  all  the  medical  men  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Saranac  Lake  into  contact 
in  a  friendly  way,  give  them  an  opportunity  for 

(268) 


free  expressions  of  opinions  on  medical  subjects, 
and  offer  on  many  disputed  or  obscure  topics  the 
best  and  most  advanced  instruction  obtainable. 

Having  reached  this  point  will  the  evolution 
of  the  little  laboratory  room  in  my  cottage  con- 
tinue, and  will  it  some  day  extend  its  usefulness 
by  becoming  a  teaching  department  for  advanced 
students  and  specialists?  This  the  future  alone 
can  answer. 

How  much  original  work  my  associates  have 
done  was  revealed  most  pleasantly  to  me  on  my 
sixtieth  birthday,  when,  after  a  very  pleasant 
dinner  they  gave  me,  they  presented  me  with 
two  most  beautiful  volumes  bound  in  red  morocco, 
containing  seventy  papers  representing  their  own 
studies,  which  had  been  published  in  various 
medical  journals  both  here  and  abroad,  from  1887 
to  1908.  These  volumes  I  keep  among  my  treas- 
ures, and  I  prize  them  more  and  more  as  the 
years  roll  by. 

At  the  end  of  the  dinner  my  good  friend,  Dr. 
J.  Woods  Price,  in  the  guise  of  Father  Time,  with 
a  long,  white  beard,  and  a  bottle  of  chloroform, 
appeared  suddenly  to  claim  me  as  having  passed 
the  age  limit  of  usefulness.  Dr.  James  rose  to 
protest,  but  Father  Time  said  he  would  not  listen 
to  him,  as  he  was  too  near  the  age  limit  himself 
and  would  be  prejudiced;  but  if  one  of  the  younger 
men  would  speak  he  would  listen.  An  impassioned 
and  most  clever  plea  to  spare  me  followed,  spoken 
by  the  late  Dr.  Albert  H.  Allen.     Father  Time 

(269) 


relented,  and  gave  me  a  big  parchment  diploma 
with  a  huge  seal  attached,  permitting  me  to  con- 
tinue to  live  as  long  as  I  could;  and  I  have  been 
doing  my  best  to  avail  myself  of  his  gracious 
permission. 


(270) 


XXIII 

IN  the  fall  of  1892,  when  Chatte  was  so  ill, 
Ned  went  to  Yale.  Ned  was  a  slender,  active 
boy.  He  had  had  four  years  at  St.  Paul's  School, 
Concord,  and  had  made  a  good  record  there  both 
in  his  studies  and  among  the  boys,  among  whom 
he  was  ever  popular  and  a  natural  leader.  Though 
slender,  he  was  very  quick  and  athletic,  and  his 
proficiency  in  field  sports  greatly  helped  his  popu- 
larity with  his  school-mates.  He  was  a  wonderful 
shot  with  a  rifle  even  when  a  mere  boy,  and  could 
throw  a  snow-ball  straighter  and  harder  than 
any  boy  in  Saranac  Lake,  thus  bringing  trouble 
on  his  father  many  times  from  injured  and  en- 
raged citizens. 

When  he  came  home  for  Christmas  he  told  me 
the  captain  of  the  Yale  base-ball  nine  had  seen 
him  at  the  station  and  had  said  to  him,  "Now 
remember,  young  man,  don't  throw  any  snow- 
balls when  you  are  home."  I  told  him  that 
evidently  the  captain  was  considering  putting 
him  on  the  base-ball  team;  and  this  proved  to 
be  the  case,  for  on  his  return  he  was  made  pitcher 
on  the  Freshman  team.  The  next  year  he  pitched 
second  to  "Dutch"  Carter,  the  well-known  Yale 

(271) 


pitcher,  on  the  University  team,  and  the  last 
year  Ned  pitched  Yale  to  victory  in  some  of  the 
great  intercollegiate  matches.  I  remember  once 
it  was  the  deciding  match  for  the  championship 
between  Princeton  and  Yale,  which  was  being 
played  at  Princeton.  The  score  stood  7  to  i  in 
favor  of  Princeton  when  Ned  was  put  in  the 
box.  Princeton  never  made  another  hit,  and 
Yale  won  8  to  7.  Even  our  Princeton  friends 
sent  us  telegrams  of  congratulation  on  that 
occasion. 

I  was  told  by  a  Yale  man  that  during  the  last 
year  of  his  college  course  Ned  did  over  half  of 
all  the  pitching  for  Yale  in  the  intercollegiate 
games;  and  yet,  though  thin,  he  seemed  abso- 
lutely tireless.  He  was  so  quick  that  in  all  the 
long  base-ball  battles  he  participated  in  he  never 
had  the  slightest  injury,  even  to  his  fingers. 

He  possessed  that  wonderful  gift  of  a  most 
attractive  personality,  which  made  friends  for 
him  with  everybody  with  whom  he  came  in  con- 
tact. He  was  a  Skull  and  Bones  man  at  Yale 
and  president  of  his  class  at  the  College  of  Physi- 
cians and  Surgeons,  where  he  was  graduated  in 
1900. 

After  his  medical  course  Ned  served  his  full 
time  as  interne  at  the  Presbyterian  Hospital  in 
New  York,  and  then  came  up  to  us  at  Saranac 
Lake.  He  intended  to  settle  here  and  help  me 
with  my  work,  but  I  did  all  I  could  to  dissuade 
him  from  this.     With  his  wonderful  charm,  his 

(272) 


very  thorough  education,  and  his  vigorous  health, 
I  saw  a  much  more  brilHant  future  for  him  else- 
where. I  was  beginning  already  to  realize  the 
stigma  with  which  the  world  stamps  everything 
and  everybody  connected  with  tuberculosis,  and 
I  saw  no  reason  why  Ned  should  voluntarily 
assume  this  burden.  I  was  therefore  overjoyed 
when  my  good  friend,  Dr.  Walter  B.  James  offered 
him  a  place  in  his  office  in  New  York  City,  with 
every  opportunity  there  for  advancement  in  his 
profession;  and  it  seemed  to  me  and  to  all  my 
friends  that  a  very  bright  future  was  before  him. 

I  had  met  Dr.  James  in  my  early  visits  to  New 
York  and  at  the  meetings  of  the  Association  of 
American  Physicians  in  Washington.  Our  acquain- 
tance slowly  deepened  into  a  closer  friendship, 
and  a  better  friend  than  Dr.  James  has  been  to 
me  for  half  a  lifetime  no  man  ever  had.  I  found 
myself  writing  to  him  oftener  and  oftener,  and 
seeking  his  advice  and  help  on  every  occasion; 
and  he  ever  gave  me  both,  and  both  of  the  best 
quality.  Every  time  we  went  to  New  York  he 
would  set  aside  from  his  very  busy  days  time 
enough  for  us  to  lunch  together  at  the  University 
Club,  and  discuss  all  my  medical  and  personal 
problems  in  Saranac  Lake;  and  the  luncheons 
at  the  Club  grew  to  be  like  "the  laws  of  the  Medes 
and  Persians  which  altereth  not,"  and  remained 
in  force  as  long  as  I  was  able  to  go  to  New  York. 

My  talks  with  Dr.  James  meant  much  to  me, 
and  I  always  brought  from  them  cheer  and  much 

(273) 


wisdom,  and  the  joy  which  comes  from  close 
communion  with  a  tried  friend;  and  I  am  thank- 
ful to  say  this  wealth  of  good  things  is  still  ever 
at  my  disposal,  now  in  time  of  need.  When  I 
asked  him  to  examine  patients  in  New  York  for 
the  Sanitarium  he  readily  consented,  and  in  1895 
became  a  trustee  of  the  institution.  The  annual 
meetings  have  been  generally  held  at  his  house, 
and  he  has  ever  cooperated  with  me  and  helped 
most  efficiently  in  the  administration  of  its  affairs. 
He  is  Vice-president  of  the  Board  of  Trustees  of 
the  Sanitarium,  and  when  I  am  all  through  with 
my  work  there  and  my  place  is  vacant,  it  is  com- 
forting to  think  that  the  destinies  of  the  City  of 
Hope  on  the  hill,  which  I  have  labored  for  thirty 
years  to  build,  will  be  in  the  hands  of  so  good  and 
tried  a  friend. 

Ned  had  met  in  Chicago  a  Miss  Hazel  Martyn, 
and  had  fallen  deeply  in  love  with  her.  She  was 
well  known  in  Chicago  and  Paris  art  circles  as 
a  talented  artist  and  a  very  beautiful  woman. 
It  was  love  at  first  sight,  and  a  violent  love  affair 
with  Ned;  and  when  she  went  abroad  he  left  us 
suddenly,  went  to  Europe,  and  must  have  carried 
the  fortress  by  storm,  for  he  soon  returned  in  the 
same  ship  with  Miss  Martyn  and  her  mother. 

The  marriage  took  place  in  Chicago  a  few  months 
later.  My  wife,  Francis  and  I  all  went  to  it,  and 
I  only  repeat  what  I  heard  many  others  say:  that 
a  handsomer  couple  than  Ned  and  Hazel  Martyn 
are  not  often  seen. 

(274) 


We  went  to  New  York  later  to  attend  a  beau- 
tiful reception  Dr.  and  Mrs.  James  gave  the 
young  married  couple  at  their  home.  As  I  looked 
at  Ned  then  I  could  not  help  thinking  what  a 
brilliant  future  was  before  him,  for  in  addition 
to  his  personal  advantages,  he  had  already  many 
warm  friends  in  New  York  among  the  very  best 
people  there,  and  his  connection  with  Dr.  James 
gave  him  a  wonderful  opportunity  in  his  profes- 
sional life.  I  rejoiced  then  I  had  not  let  him 
assume  a  more  obscure  career  with  his  father 
in  the  remote  little  Adirondack  village,  with  its 
ever-present  burden  of  chronic  illness. 

How  little  we  can  see  into  the  future,  and  how 
well  it  is  we  cannot!  The  young  married  couple 
settled  in  New  York,  and  Ned  was  soon  launched 
into  practice  and  other  medical  activities  through 
his  connection  with  Dr.  James.  All  winter  I 
thought  of  him  with  the  utmost  satisfaction, 
when,  in  the  spring,  a  telegram  from  Dr.  James 
told  us  Ned  had  been  suddenly  taken  down  with 
an  acute  pneumonia,  and  urged  us  to  come  to  his 
house  by  the  evening  train. 

Neither  my  wife  nor  I  slept  much  that  night 
on  the  train.  We  found  Ned  seriously  ill.  Then 
came  five  terrible  days  of  anxiety,  and  then  the 
joyous  news  that  the  fever  had  fallen,  the  crisis 
was  passed,  and  Dr.  Janeway  had  seen  him  that 
morning  and  said  he  would  recover,  and  that  we 
could  take  him  to  Little  Rapids  in  ten  days. 

That  afternoon  he  died  suddenly  of  heart  clot. 

(275) 


I  cannot  write  about  his  death.  My  wife  and  I 
passed  through  days  of  dazed  suffering,  which 
even  now  it  is  hard  to  dwell  upon  and  from  which 
we  have  never  recovered,  for  life  has  never  been 
the  same  to  us  since. 

Through  all  these  terrible,  dark  days,  however, 
the  tender  sympathy  and  love  of  our  friends  and 
his  friends  shone,  and  shines  even  now,  like  a 
soft  light  in  the  midst  of  impenetrable  gloom. 
Everyone  who  knew  Ned  and  knew  us  tried  to 
show  their  love  for  him,  and  that  touched  us  and 
helped  us  bear  our  own  suffering.  I  cannot  write 
it  all,  but  the  full  record  is  written  so  deep  in  our 
hearts  that  nothing  can  ever  dim  it.  I  hope  all 
his  friends  know  this,  for  we  have  never  been 
able  to  tell  them  all  we  felt. 

Among  many  others.  Dr.  James,  Dr.  Linsly 
Williams,  Mr.  Harriman  and  Lawrence  Aspinwall 
were  with  us  through  all  that  terrible  evening 
when  Ned  lay  dead  in  the  next  room,  and  they 
did  everything  that  love  and  sympathy  and  helpful 
friendship  could  do  to  steady  us  and  relieve  us 
in  doing  what  had  to  be  done. 

The  next  afternoon  at  the  Grand  Central 
Station  we  found  two  cars  Mr.  Harriman  had 
arranged  for,  attached  to  the  Adirondack  train. 
In  one  Ned's  body  lay,  buried  under  a  roomful 
of  flowers  and  surrounded  by  his  Yale  chums, 
who  sat  up  all  night  by  him  as  the  car  sped  through 
the  darkness  toward  the  mountains  and  the  little 
churchyard  under  the  tall  pines  at  Paul  Smith's. 

(276) 


The  other  car  was  prepared  for  us  and  many 
friends. 

The  next  morning  broke  clear  and  beautiful, 
and  as  we  approached  the  Church  it  was  evident 
the  whole  country  had  come  to  show  their  love 
for  the  young  man  who  had  lived  his  boyhood 
and  most  of  his  life  among  them.  Streams  of 
carriages  came  from  Saranac  Lake  and  the  sur- 
rounding country,  and  when  we  reached  the 
churchyard,  as  at  Chatte's  funeral,  we  found 
Paul  Smith  and  his  sons  and  other  faithful  friends 
had  covered  all  the  ground  from  the  Church  to 
the  grave  with  flowers  and  green  boughs.  The 
Smith's  had  thrown  open  their  hotel  and  provided 
liberal  entertainment  all  that  day  for  the  crowd 
of  people  who  came.  Had  Ned  been  their  own 
son  and  brother  they  could  not  have  done  more. 

But  I  was  to  have  further  proof  of  the  love  and 
esteem  in  which  he  was  held.  A  few  days  later  I 
started  out  to  collect  and  settle  all  the  bills  for 
the  funeral.  Everywhere  the  answer  was  the 
same.  There  was  no  bill.  What  they  had  done, 
they  had  done  to  show  their  affection  for  him. 
This  was  repeated  everywhere,  from  Paul  Smith 
and  his  sons,  who  arranged  for  the  funeral,  opened 
the  hotel  and  provided  for  a  crowd  of  guests 
at  St.  Regis,  to  the  livery-stable  men  and  even 
the  poor  hackmen  in  Saranac  Lake,  who  refused 
to  take  money  for  what  they  had  done — not  for 
money,  but  to  show  their  affection  for  him. 

(277) 


XXIV 

FROM  1894  to  1904,  when  life  had  been  so  filled 
with  sorrow  and  work  for  me,  the  Sanitarium 
had  taken  up  much  of  my  time  and  had  steadily 
continued  to  grow  and  develop  in  every  depart- 
ment. In  those  ten  years  nine  new  cottages  had 
been  built  by  the  following  persons:  Mr.  Jacob 
H.  SchiflF;  Mr.  Edwin  W.  Inslee,  in  memory  of 
his  brother,  Mr.  Samuel  Inslee;  Mrs.  Sol  French, 
in  memory  of  her  father;  Mrs.  A.  A.  Anderson; 
Mrs.  Walter  G.  Ladd;  the  Reverend  E.  A.  Hoff- 
man, in  memory  of  his  son;  a  memorial  cottage 
to  Mrs.  Abby  Sage  Richardson,  given  by  her 
friends  through  Mrs.  W.  P.  Northrup;  a  memorial 
to  her  son,  by  Mrs.  John  N.  Robins;  and  a  mem- 
orial cottage  to  Miss  Lillie  Lewis,  given  by  her 
sister,  Mrs.  Eleanor  Phoenix. 

With  the  experience  gained  as  to  the  require- 
ments of  these  little  buildings,  we  had  steadily 
developed  new  features  which  rendered  them 
more  and  more  comfortable,  and  more  and  more 
suited  to  open-air  methods,  especially  as  far  as 
making  sleeping  out  possible  and  easy  for  every 
patient,  according  to  the  prescription  of  the  physi- 
cian.     They    also   changed    from    small,    cheap, 

(279) 


temporary  structures  to  larger,  permanently  built 
little  homes,  equipped  with  electricity,  open  fire- 
places, bath-rooms,  and  sleeping-out  porches  for 
every  patient. 

After  the  first  ten  years  a  gradual  process  of 
evolution,  not  only  in  the  growth  but  in  the 
character  of  the  institution,  had  steadily  devel- 
oped and  continued  in  every  department,  and  this 
process  has  aimed  at  perfecting  what  was  acquired 
and  making  it  more  permanent  rather  than  toward 
mere  expansion. 

In  1896  the  wooden  Main  Building,  which  had 
several  times  been  altered  and  added  to,  was  torn 
down  entirely  and  a  large  stone  and  shingle 
structure,  of  ample  proportions  to  anticipate 
the  future  growth  of  the  institution,  was  erected. 
This  was  designed  by  Mr.  J.  Lawrence  Aspinwall, 
who  afterward  planned  many  of  the  buildings 
and  has  ever  given  me  practical  assistance  in  the 
development  of  the  plant.  The  main  office, 
the  parlor  and  a  central  dining-room  were  on  the 
first  floor.  In  the  two  upper  stories  were  comfort- 
able rooms  for  offices  for  the  physicians  and  mem- 
bers of  the  administrative  and  service  departments, 
and  large  dormitory  rooms  for  a  few  patients. 
In  the  same  year  Mrs.  Frederick  Baker  gave  a 
beautiful  stone  chapel,  where  religious  services 
have  been  held  for  the  patients  ever  since. 

That  year  Mr.  Frederick  Baker,  who  was  stay- 
ing for  a  short  time  at  the  Ampersand  Hotel, 
consulted  me  professionally.     He  was  a  pleasant 

(280) 


gentleman  and  we  got  along  admirably  together. 
I  showed  him  the  Sanitarium  and,  I  imagine, 
told  him  a  good  deal  about  it.  That  evening  as 
I  was  leaving  his  room  after  a  call  he  said  to  me: 
"Mrs.  Baker  is  coming  up  tomorrow;  why  don't 
you  take  her  up  to  the  Sanitarium;  I  think  it 
might  interest  her." 

This  was  a  happy  suggestion.  I  took 
Mrs.  Baker  there,  and  when  she  asked  me  what 
I  wanted  I  told  her  a  little  chapel  of  some 
sort  for  the  patients  to  worship  in.  The  archi- 
tects, Mr.  Coulter  and  Mr.  Aspinwall,  did  the 
rest  by  drawing  such  an  attractive  plan  of  a  little 
rough  stone  church  that  Mrs.  Baker  at  once 
decided  this  was  just  the  kind  of  gift  she  would 
like  to  make  as  a  memorial  to  her  son.  I  heard 
afterwards  that  on  the  following  Christmas,  in 
talking  over  her  investments  with  Mr.  Baker, 
she  said  she  thought  the  best  investment  she  had 
made  during  the  year  was  the  little  chapel  at  the 
Sanitarium;  and  it  has  continued  to  be  a  good 
investment  ever  since. 

I  have  never  been  able  to  make  up  my  mind 
as  to  which  of  the  two  little  churches  is  the  more 
attractive — the  log  church  at  Paul  Smith's  or 
the  little  rough-stone  chapel  at  the  Sanitarium; 
but  both  are  remarkably  well  adapted  to  their 
surroundings. 

It  seemed  wiser  not  to  have  the  Sanitarium 
Chapel  consecrated,  so  that  ministers  of  all 
denominations  could   hold   services  in   the  little 

(281) 


edifice.  For  many  years  services  have  been  held 
there  for  the  patients  by  clergymen  of  all  denomi- 
nations, who  freely  give  their  time  to  the  institu- 
tion without  money  and  without  price.  Many 
celebrated  ministers  have  officiated  there,  and 
some  who  were  not  ministers  at  all.  One  of  the 
most  impressive  services  I  ever  heard  there  was 
one  afternoon  when  I  drove  Dr.  Wilfred  T.  Gren- 
fell  up  in  my  cutter  to  a  little  impromptu  mis- 
sionary service  at  which  a  Catholic  missionary 
priest  and  an  Episcopal  minister,  both  patients, 
gave  their  experiences  as  missionaries,  and  Dr. 
Grenfell  followed,  describing  the  joy  of  practical 
missionary  work  for  his  fellow  men  on  the  coast 
of  Labrador. 

The  increasing  number  of  patients  had  for  a 
long  time  outgrown  the  Hall  Infirmary  and  more 
room  and  improved  accommodations  were  greatly 
needed,  when  in  1901,  principally  through  the 
influence  of  Dr.  Lawrason  Brown,  Mr.  Otis  H. 
Childs  gave  the  Childs  Memorial  Building  as  a 
memorial  to  his  wife,  and  it  proved  to  be  a  most 
timely  and  welcome  addition  to  our  resources  for 
treating  bed  patients.  The  Childs  Memorial  Build- 
ing was  designed  by  the  late  Mr.  Wm.  L.  Coulter. 
It  is  a  crescent-shaped  structure,  of  light  yellow 
brick  and  rough  stone,  with  a  slate  roof,  and  is, 
inside  and  outside,  one  of  the  most  attractive 
buildings  on  the  grounds.  The  view  from  the 
porch  on  which  the  patients'  beds  are  pushed  out 
is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  mountain  views  in 

(282) 


the  Adirondacks,  and  for  those  who  are  so  unfor- 
tunate as  to  require  bed  treatment  it  would  be 
hard  to  find  a  more  attractive  place  to  carry  out 
the  doctor's  restful  sentence. 

At  my  suggestion  an  effort  was  made  by  my 
friends  to  increase  the  growth  of  the  Endowment 
Fund  so  as  to  correspond  with  the  growth  and 
extension  of  the  plant,  for  I  realized  that  the  per- 
manency of  the  institution  must  greatly  depend 
on  the  Endowment  Fund.  The  first  thing  to  do 
was  to  let  the  interest  of  the  fund  accumulate, 
and  try  to  raise  enough  each  year  by  appeals 
to  meet  the  running  expenses,  and  this  policy 
was  carried  out  for  twenty- five  years;  so  that  the 
Endowment  Fund  has  grown  as  much  by  accre- 
tion as  it  has  by  subscriptions  and  bequests.  In 
1897  it  had  reached  the  sum  of  fifty-seven  thou- 
sand, three  hundred  and  sixty- two  dollars  and 
thirty-two  cents,  and  that  year  a  bequest  from 
Miss  Cooper  raised  it  to  one  hundred  and  seven 
thousand,  three  hundred  and  sixty- two  dollars 
and  thirty-two  cents;  and  in  1903,  through  a 
special  effort  made  by  Mrs.  Anson  Phelps  Stokes, 
who  wrote  personally  to  many  of  her  friends, 
seventy-eight  thousand,  four  hundred  dollars  was 
added  at  one  time,  and  the  Fund  by  1904  reached 
the  sum  of  two  hundred  and  ninety-nine  thousand, 
eighty-three  dollars  and  sixty-five  cents. 

Thus  in  twenty  years  the  Sanitarium  was  built 
and  paid  for,  the  large  deficit  on  running  expenses 
was  met  each  year — a  deficit  amounting  at  times 

(283) 


to  as  much  as  twenty-nine  thousand  dollars  in 
one  year — and  an  Endowment  Fund  of  nearly 
three  hundred  thousand  dollars  accumulated. 

The  first  Resident  Physician  at  the  Sanitarium 
was  Dr.  Henry  Sewall,  who,  with  his  wife,  occupied 
one  of  the  first  little  one-room  cottages  during 
the  winter  of  1889  or  1890.  After  a  few  months* 
stay  he  went  to  Colorado,  where  he  took  up  his 
residence  permanently,  and  has  made  a  name  for 
himself  which  is  well  known  to  the  medical  profes- 
sion all  over  the  United  States. 

In  1 891  Dr.  Irwin  H.  Hance  came  to  the  Sani- 
tarium. At  first  he  had  only  a  bed-room  and  no 
office,  but  in  1894  the  Doctor's  cottage  was  built 
and  he  moved  in  with  his  wife,  and  became  Resi- 
dent Physician  until  1896,  when  he  went  into 
general  practice  in  Lakewood,  New  Jersey.  His 
advent  was  a  great  help  to  me,  as  he  relieved  me 
greatly  of  the  medical  responsibility  of  the  insti- 
tution, which  I  had  had  to  bear  practically  alone 
up  to  that  time.  His  personal  interest  in  the 
patients  and  their  problems  was  also  a  great  help, 
and  he  gave  the  institution  efficient  and  devoted 
service  for  four  years  for  the  absurd  salary  of 
three  hundred  dollars  a  year — which  was  also  a 
great  help  at  that  trying  time  of  its  existence. 

The  question  of  the  efficacy  of  the  simple 
methods  we  employed  at  the  Sanitarium  to  guard 
against  infection  of  the  buildings  was  all  the  time 
coming  up,  and  I  felt  as  if  some  evidence  based 

(284) 


on  facts  would  be  most  desirable.  At  my  sug- 
gestion Dr.  Hance  undertook  a  set  of  experiments 
to  obtain  evidence  on  this  all-important  matter. 

He  collected  the  dust  from  a  measured  surface 
of  the  walls  of  all  the  buildings,  and  injected  a 
sample  from  each  building  into  a  separate  lot  of 
guinea-pigs.  This  was  a  most  delicate  test,  as 
the  presence  of  very  few  living  bacilli  in  the 
sample  would  in  time  inevitably  be  revealed  by 
the  development  of  tuberculosis  in  the  suscep- 
tible little  animals.  The  dust  proved  free  from 
bacilli  in  all  the  buildings,  even  in  the  Infirmary, 
which  had  constantly  been  occupied  by  the  most 
advanced  cases.  In  one  cottage,  however — my 
original  little  cottage — a  patient  had  been  reported 
twice  for  being  careless  with  his  expectoration, 
and  the  inoculation  made  from  the  dust  of  this 
cottage  proved  positive  in  three  out  of  the  ten 
pigs  injected.  This  evidence  demonstrated  the 
efficacy  of  our  simple  methods  of  dealing  with 
all  infectious  material  when  rigidly  enforced. 

Dr.  S.  W.  Hewetson  took  Dr.  Hance's  place 
for  a  year;  Dr.  W.  H.  Jamieson  was  resident 
physician  from  1897  to  1899,  and  Dr.  Charles 
C.  Trembley  from  1899  to  1901.  All  these  gentle- 
men gave  the  work  their  interest  and  devotion. 

In  1 90 1  Dr.  Lawrason  Brown  became  Resident 
Physician  and  remained  in  charge  of  the  medical 
department  of  the  Sanitarium  until  191 2.  During 
the  ten  years  of  his  stay  he  steadily  developed 
and    perfected    the    methods    of    treatment    and 

(285) 


the  rules  which  govern  the  details  of  the  patients' 
medical  supervision  at  the  institution.  The 
present  high  medical  standard  of  the  Adirondack 
Cottage  Sanitarium,  and  at  many  institutions 
which  have  followed  its  lead,  is  due  in  a  great 
measure  to  the  influence  of  his  untiring  and 
efficient  work. 

The  essential  factors  of  the  sanatorium  method 
of  treating  tuberculosis  I  had  labored  to  demon- 
strate practically,  in  the  face  of  much  opposition 
and  many  difficulties,  with  such  devoted  medical 
help  and  with  such  limited  resources  as  I  could 
secure  throughout  the  first  fifteen  years  of  the 
Sanitarium's  existence.  It  took  all  my  energies 
for  many  years,  however,  merely  to  keep  the 
institution  afloat  long  enough  to  demonstrate 
by  practical  results  the  great  truths  for  which  it 
stood.  These  were  all  generally  accepted  and 
permanently  established  when  Dr.  Brown  became 
Resident  Physician,  but  the  methods  were  crude, 
the  discipline  imperfect,  and  the  records  incom- 
plete. The  simple  and  efficient  rules  of  discipline, 
the  thorough  instruction  of  physicians,  nurses 
and  patients,  the  accurate  medical  reports  and 
the  exhaustive  post-discharge  records  of  all 
patients  since  the  institution  started,  the  Medical 
Building  with  its  facilities  for  the  careful  study 
of  all  cases  on  admission,  and  another  scientific 
laboratory,  all  sprang  into  life  as  a  result  of  Dr. 
Brown's  insistent  efforts  for  efficiency  and  con- 
tinued progress.     In  addition,  he  found  time  to 

(286) 


establish  and  edit  for  nine  years  The  Journal  of 
the  Outdoor  Life,  which  has  rendered  such  far- 
reaching  service  in  the  crusade  against  tuber- 
culosis. 

As  I  had  been  only  too  glad  to  turn  over  the 
Laboratory  in  Saranac  Lake  to  Dr.  Baldwin,  it 
was  an  immense  relief  to  me  to  place  the  medical 
department  of  the  Sanitarium  entirely  in  Dr. 
Brown's  hands,  since  soon  after  his  arrival  my 
health  and  my  capacity  for  work  began  steadily 
to  fail. 

In  19 1 2  Dr.  Brown  opened  his  office  in  the 
village  and  devoted  his  entire  time  to  practice 
and  consultation  work;  but  he  still  retains  his 
connection  with  the  Sanitarium  as  consulting 
physician,  and  I  still  have  his  friendly  counsel 
and  help  to  turn  to. 

Mrs.  Julia  A.  Miller  was  Superintendent  from 
1885  to  1903.  I  owe  her  a  debt  of  gratitude  which 
can  never  be  repaid  for  her  faithful  service  to  the 
institution  at  a  most  difficult  period  of  its  exis- 
tence. 

When  Mrs.  Miller  retired  Miss  Marguerite  de 
Longue,  who  for  some  time  had  been  Mrs.  Miller's 
most  trusted  assistant  and  was  thoroughly  familiar 
with  every  detail  of  the  Superintendent's  depart- 
ment, became  Superintendent.  Soon  afterwards 
she  married  and  became  Mrs.  Charles  R.  Arm- 
strong. 

It  is  hard  to  express  my  indebtedness  to  Mrs 
Armstrong  for  her  long  years  of  devoted  work. 

(287) 


When  she  assumed  control  the  institution  had 
developed  so  rapidly  that  matters  in  her  depart- 
ment were  in  a  most  chaotic  condition,  and  the 
management  of  the  finances,  the  buying  of  pro- 
visions, the  securing  of  servants,  the  care  of  the 
buildings  were  all  matters  in  which  I  could  not 
give  her  the  least  assistance,  but  which  she  carried 
through  for  me  with  the  utmost  economy  and 
efficiency.  Few  outside  of  a  tuberculosis  sana- 
torium can  imagine  the  difficulties  to  be  met  by 
the  Superintendent  in  finding  employees  not 
terror-stricken  at  the  idea  of  working  in  a  sana- 
torium; in  the  securing  of  efficient  service  for 
insufficient  wages;  in  meeting  the  complaints  of 
patients,  who  all  want  to  select  their  own  rooms, 
cottage-mates,  places  at  the  dinner  table,  etc.; 
in  reconciling  the  demands  of  the  various  depart- 
ments and  saving  waste  in  every  direction;  but 
I  knew  some  of  the  difficulties  of  the  position  by 
observation.  Through  long  years  of  struggle 
with  these  and  other  problems,  Mrs.  Armstrong's 
one  aim  was  ever  the  interest  and  advancement 
of  the  Sanitarium,  and  no  sacrifice  on  her  part 
was  too  great  to  meet  the  demands  made  upon 
her.  In  1912  she  broke  down  and  retired,  and  the 
place  of  Superintendent  was  taken  by  her  husband, 
Mr.  Charles  R.  Armstrong,  also  a  former  patient, 
while  she  still  retains  her  interest,  and  voluntarily 
oversees  the  grounds  and  directs  the  landscape 
gardening,  with  results  which  speak  volumes  for 
her  efficiency  and  good  taste. 

(288) 


Her  mantle  has  fallen  on  worthy  shoulders, 
and  though  I  have  been  so  ill  for  the  past  few 
years  as  to  be  mostly  confined  to  my  room  and 
bed,  the  consciousness  that  my  friend  Mr.  Arm- 
strong is  the  Superintendent,  and  the  knowl- 
edge that  the  institution  has  the  benefit  of  his 
watchful,  disinterested  and  skilful  oversight,  has 
ever  been  of  the  utmost  comfort  and  relief  to  me. 


(289) 


XXV 

FITZ  Greene  Hallock  and  the  hunting  had  had 
little  part  in  all  these  strenuous  years  of  work 
and  sorrow.  Fitz  had  taken  a  position  as  head 
game-keeper  on  Dr.  W.  Seward  Webb's  great 
game  preserve,  but  on  the  rare  occasions  when 
I  saw  him  I  knew,  lucrative  as  his  position  was, 
there  were  many  things  about  it  that  were  trying 
to  him.  In  our  talks  we  agreed  that  if  he  ever 
could  manage  it,  he  would  find  some  little  secluded 
spot  in  the  woods  where  we  could  go  and  have 
some  quiet  hunting  and  fishing  trips  together. 
Finally  the  project  materialized,  and  Fitz  told 
me  Dr.  Webb  had  offered  to  sell  him  a  small 
hunting  place  called  Little  Rapids,  and  that 
it  was  just  what  we  wanted. 

Little  Rapids  was  a  hunting  lodge  on  the  south- 
ern border  of  Dr.  Webb's  great  preserve,  and  had 
been  occupied  by  one  of  Dr.  Webb's  game-keepers. 
The  place  comprised  twelve  hundred  acres  of 
forest  land;  the  Beaver  River  ran  in  front  of 
the  little  cottage,  over  some  beautiful  rapids; 
there  was  a  lake  nearly  a  mile  long  on  the  place, 
and  the  hunting  and  fishing  were  excellent.  Not 
a  road  or  a  path  led  to  it,  but  the  railroad  was 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  little  clearing  by  the 

(291) 


Rapids,  where  the  cottage  was  located,  and, 
if  the  train  could  be  stopped,  made  the  place 
easily  and  quickly  accessible  from  Saranac  Lake. 

Fitz  said  he  was  going  to  give  up  his  position 
with  Dr.  Webb,  and  that  to  retire  to  such  a  wild 
little  spot,  look  after  the  game,  and  hunt  and 
fish  with  me  when  I  could  come  down,  had  been 
a  dream  of  his  for  a  long  time.  The  price  asked 
was  not  excessive  and  we  decided,  if  I  took  two 
shares  and  Fitz  one,  that  with  two  other  members 
we  could  manage  the  expense.  My  friend  Mr. 
William  Hall  Penfold,  took  one  share,  and  another 
friend,  Mr.  J.  W.  Van  Woert,  another  share,  and 
so  we  bought  Little  Rapids  in  1899.  For  fifteen 
years  I  always  had  a  place  to  run  away  to  from 
the  ever-present  tuberculosis  problems  at  Saranac 
Lake:  a  place  where  I  could  rest  and  fish  and  hunt 
with  my  friends  and  my  sons,  and  live  over  with 
Fitz  the  same  old  life  in  the  woods  we  both  loved 
so  well. 

I  am  afraid  to  describe  Little  Rapids,  because 
my  description  might  seem  extravagant;  but  it 
is  just  an  ideal  little  hunting  lodge,  and  a  most 
beautiful  aggregation  of  stream,  lake  and  forest, 
peaceful  in  its  lonely  and  wild  beauty,  and  acces- 
sible, yet  remote,  from  the  busy  world.  I  think 
some  of  the  happiest  days  of  my  life  have  been  spent 
there  with  my  wife,  my  sons,  who  loved  the  place 
as  much  as  I  did,  our  friends  and  my  old  friend 
Fitz  Hallock,  amid  the  quiet  stillness  and  beauty 
of  the  great  forest. 

(292) 


Little  Rapids  is  sold  now,  and  these  golden 
days  have  gone,  never  to  return  again,  I  know; 
but  the  recollection  of  them  I  still  have  to  dwell 
upon,  and  not  even  time  can  rob  me  of  that. 

Over  the  past,  Heaven  itself  hath  no  power; 
What  has  been,  has  been  and  I  have  had  my  hour. 

When  Mr.  Van  Woert  died  Dr.  James  bought 
his  share  and  Fitz  sold  his  to  Mr.  Harriman; 
and  these  good  friends,  who  had  little  or  no  time 
to  give  to  amusement  and  Little  Rapids  and  never 
went  there,  nevertheless  divided  the  expense  of 
the  place  for  years  because  they  knew  how  much 
I  loved  to  go.  Indeed,  all  my  friends  have  ever 
helped,  in  sorrow  and  in  joy,  to  make  life  as 
happy  and  as  easy  as  possible  for  me. 

As  my  strength  failed  rapidly  of  late  years  and 
my  capacity  for  walking  grew  less  and  less,  Fitz's 
ingenuity  to  make  it  still  possible  for  me  to  hunt 
and  fish  at  Little  Rapids,  and  yet  not  make  the 
fact  of  my  growing  limitations  too  evident  to  me, 
touched  me  deeply.  I  always  did  my  best  to 
respond  and  keep  up  our  old  traditions  of  fishing 
and  hunting  together  for  old  time's  sake,  though 
I  was  often  physically  unfit.  The  first  time  I 
became  aware  that  Fitz  had  noticed  my  walking, 
powers  were  rapidly  getting  limited  was  when  I 
found  he  had  cut  little  paths  all  through  the  old 
hunting  grounds,  removing  the  brush  and  logs, 
and  making  it  much  easier  for  me  to  walk.  I 
questioned  him   about  this,   but  he  merely  said 

(293) 


that  we  could  walk  with  less  noise  on  these  little 
paths  than  through  the  brush  heaps  and  shrubs. 
The  next  fall  when  I  came  down  for  my  hunt 
it  was  late,  and  the  forest  floor  as  usual  was  covered 
with  dry  and  crackling  leaves,  which  as  a  rule 
make  it  almost  impossible  to  get  up  to  a  deer 
without  alarming  him.  As  I  followed  Fitz  stealth- 
ily I  noticed  there  were  no  leaves  on  the  little 
paths  he  took  me  on,  so  that  we  made  no  noise; 
and  when  I  asked  him  how  this  happened  he  said 
that  during  the  week  before  I  came  down  he  had 
brushed  away  all  the  dead  leaves  from  the  paths 
where  he  was  going  to  take  me,  so  that  we  could 
walk  quietly  and  have  a  better  chance  for  a  shot. 
When  I  could  walk  no  more  at  all,  he  made  a 
chair  in  which  I  could  be  carried  everywhere  to 
the  old  runways  in  the  woods,  and  we  had  some 
good  hunts  and  killed  some  deer  in  spite  of  our 
handicap,  until  I  became  too  ill  to  go  to  Little 
Rapids  any  more. 

My  health  was  failing  steadily,  and  I  was 
growing  less  and  less  able  to  do  the  general 
practice  at  Paul  Smith's,  as  well  as  my  increasing 
consultation  work  during  the  summer  months. 
It  was  in  1901  that  my  good  friend  Dr.  James 
Alexander  Miller  first  came  into  my  life,  and  his 
advent,  besides  relieving  me  of  work  at  Paul 
Smith's  which  I  was  unfit  to  do,  soon  brought 
me  all  the  help  and  comfort  of  a  good  friend. 
Dr.  Thomas  had  joined  me  at  Paul  Smith's  dur- 

(294) 


ing  the  two  preceding  summers,  and  helped  me 
by  doing  most  of  the  practice  there  during  the 
crowded  season.  After  Dr.  Miller  came  I  gave  up 
everything  but  my  consultations  at  Paul  Smith's 
and  Saranac  Lake,  and  soon  learned  to  lean  on 
him  and  depend  on  his  wise  counsel  and  his  friend- 
ship in  many  matters,  and  these,  I  am  thankful 
to  say,  are  still  ever  at  my  disposal. 

Dr.  Miller  became  examiner  in  New  York  City 
for  the  Sanitarium  in  1904,  and  in  spite  of  the 
pressure  of  constantly  growing  medical  respon- 
sibilities, he  still  gives  the  institution  the  benefit 
of  his  skilled  advice  in  the  thankless  task  of 
examining  applicants  for  admission  and  selecting 
suitable  cases  for  treatment.  He  is  a  member  of 
the  medical  board  of  the  institution,  which  will, 
I  hope,  long  have  the  benefit  of  his  interest  and 
wise  counsel. 

From  1904  to  1914  the  growth  and  development 
of  the  Sanitarium  in  buildings,  resources,  and 
new  activities,  continued  steadily  and  on  a  grow- 
ing scale.  Five  new  cottages  were  built  and  one 
rebuilt  and  improved,  three  for  patients  and  three 
for  homes  for  the  heads  of  the  Vcirious  departments. 
The  three  patients'  cottages  were  all  most  per- 
manent and  complete  yellow  brick  structures, 
containing  every  improvement  for  the  end  to 
which  they  were  designed,  and  individual  sleep- 
ing-out porches  on  which  beds  could  be  pushed  at 
will.  One  was  given  by  Mrs.  Max  Nathan;  one 
as  a  memorial  to  Mrs.  Mary  C.  Wheeler,  given 

(295) 


by  her  children;  and  one  in  memory  of  Hobart 
Moore  was  presented  by  his  father  and  mother. 
In  addition,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  William  H.  Moore 
gave  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  as  a  fund  to 
meet  the  deficit  in  the  running  expenses  of  the 
cottage,  thus  entirely  relieving  the  Sanitarium  of 
the  expense  of  its  maintenance. 

The  necessity  for  furnishing  homes  for  the 
heads  of  the  various  departments  had  become  an 
urgent  need  if  the  services  of  good  men  were  to 
be  permanently  made  available  to  the  institution, 
and  Mrs.  Robert  Woods  Bliss  filled  this  need 
by  giving  me  a  check  for  ten  thousand  dollars, 
with  which  attractive  little  homes  were  built  at 
the  south  entrance  for  the  Superintendent,  the 
Bacteriologist,  the  Radiographer  and  their  families. 

Many  new  buildings  were  added  to  the  plant 
of  the  institution  as  they  were  called  for  to  meet 
the  needs  of  its  growth  and  development.  A 
beautiful  colonial  library  building  was  pre- 
sented by  Mrs.  Charles  H.  Mellon  as  a  memorial 
to  her  husband.  A  little  post  office  building  was 
also  added  to  the  plant.  Mrs.  William  H.  Bliss 
gave  an  addition  to  the  Main  Building  to  enlarge 
the  dining-room  capacity  and  otherwise  improve 
that  beautiful  structure. 

The  acquisition  of  the  Reception  and  Medical 
Building  at  the  Sanitarium  is  an  excellent  example 
of  the  vicissitudes  of  begging  money  and  of  the 
value  of  indirect  influence  in  obtaining  it.  In 
1905  Dr.  Brown  and  I  were  both  most  anxious 

(296) 


to  place  the  medical  work  of  the  Sanitarium  on 
a  higher  plane  by  obtaining  a  specially  planned 
building  devoted  to  the  medical  and  scientific 
department;  but  alas,  such  a  building  would  cost 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars. 

About  this  time  the  Reverend  Alexis  W.  Stein 
broke  down  in  the  great  work  he  was  doing  in 
Cincinnati,  and  came  to  Saranac  Lake  acutely  ill. 
In  my  attendance  upon  him  a  strong  friendship 
developed  between  us,  and  I  soon  found  I  was 
tying  my  horse  at  his  door  and  running  up  to  sit 
on  the  porch  and  have  a  good  talk  with  him  and 
Mrs.  Stein  much  oftener  than  was  necessary  to 
meet  the  medical  requirements  of  his  case.  Their 
little  boy  fell  ill  and  died,  and  the  tragedy  of  it 
all  brought  us  closer  together  than  ever. 

I  talked  over  almost  everything  with  Mr. 
Stein,  and,  among  other  things,  my  desire  for  a 
building  designed  to  establish  a  scientific  depart- 
ment at  the  Sanitarium.  At  that  time  I  had  a 
very  ill  patient,  the  wife  of  a  wealthy  New  York 
man,  and  after  her  death  he  told  me  she  had 
requested  him  to  do  something  for  my  work  at 
the  Sanitarium,  and  asked  me  what  I  needed  most. 
I  told  him  about  the  medical  building,  and  he 
ended  by  agreeing  to  give  twenty-five  thousand 
dollars  for  such  a  building,  which  was  to  be 
made  a  memorial  to  his  wife.  I  returned  home  in 
high  spirits,  and  began,  with  Dr.  Brown's  assistance, 
to  get  out  the  plans.  Bitter  disappointment  was 
in  store  for  me,  however.     This  generous  gentle- 

(297) 


man  within  two  weeks  was  taken  ill  with  appen- 
dicitis, was  operated  upon,  and  died  two  days 
after  the  operation.  I  had  no  proof  of  his  gift 
but  his  spoken  words  to  me,  and  I  had  to  begin 
all  over  again  trying  to  secure  the  needed  twenty- 
five  thousand  dollars  somewhere. 

I  had  confided  my  disappointment  to  my  friend 
Mr.  Stein,  and  a  few  weeks  later,  while  I  was 
visiting  him  on  his  porch,  he  turned  to  me  and 
said,  "Doctor,  'silver  and  gold  have  I  none,  but 
such  as  I  have'  I  am  going  to  give  you.  When  I 
was  in  the  ministry  a  lady  parishioner  of  mine 
told  me  if  I  ever  wanted  money  in  any  good  cause 
to  call  upon  her  and  she  would  be  glad  to  respond. 
I  am  going  to  write  her  and  ask  her  to  give  you 
your  medical  building."  I  thanked  him,  but 
when  I  got  home  I  felt  it  was  very  doubtful  whether 
his  good  offices  in  my  behalf  would  meet  with 
any  success.  A  few  days  later,  however,  my 
telephone  bell  rang  and  Mr.  Stein's  voice  said, 
"I  have  a  check  for  twenty-five  thousand  dollars 
for  you  whenever  you  care  to  call  for  it",  and  in 
this  indirect  way  did  the  Sanitarium  finally  get 
its  beautiful  Medical  Building.  The  donor 
remained  anonymous,  and  the  building  was  given 
as  a  memorial  to  her  sons. 

This  was  not  the  only  service  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Stein  rendered  the  tuberculous  invalid.  At 
my  request,  while  very  ill  himself,  he  wrote  for 
The  Journal  of  the  Outdoor  Life  two  articles,  one 
entitled,  "An  Insight,"  and  the  other,  "The  Con- 

(298) 


quest  of  Fate,"  which  carried  cheer  and  encour- 
agement to  hundreds  of  invalids  all  over  the 
country,  and  will  long  continue  to  speak  their 
messages  of  courage  and  hope  from  one  who  was 
an  inspiring  example  of  the  victory  of  the  spirit 
through  years  of  trials  and  physical  suffering. 
His  example  and  friendship  have  ever  been  among 
my  most  precious  memories. 

The  acquisition  of  the  Reception  and  Medical 
Building  provided  a  home  for  the  scientific 
department  and  raised  the  standard  of  the 
medical  work  of  the  institution.  The  lower 
floor  is  devoted  to  the  reception  of  incoming 
patients,  who  spend  a  week  there  under  observa- 
tion until  they  have  been  thoroughly  examined 
and  their  cases  studied,  and  they  are  then  dis- 
tributed to  the  cottages  on  the  grounds.  The 
upper  floor  is  given  up  to  physicians*  offices, 
throat-room,  examination-rooms,  library,  and 
laboratories,  while  the  entire  front  basement, 
which,  owing  to  the  slope  of  the  hill,  is  on  a  level 
with  the  ground,  is  occupied  by  several  rooms 
devoted  to  a  most  complete  X-ray  plant. 

Every  department  had  to  grow  to  match  the 
growth  and  development  of  the  others,  and  in 
1909  the  old  bams  and  sheds  were  all  pulled  down 
and  a  pleasing  modem  structure,  with  every  con- 
venience for  stables,  wood-sheds,  and  coal-sheds 
was  built  on  land  which  had  been  acquired  and 
donated  by  Mr.  D.  Lome  McGibbon  at  a  cost 
of  five  thousand  dollars. 

(299) 


In  1909  Mrs.  Walter  L.  Goodwin  erected  a 
workshop  building  for  the  use  of  the  patients, 
which  was  designed  by  Mr.  Aspinwall  and  is  a 
most  attractive  structure.  Every  convenience  for 
bookbinding,  brass  work,  leather  work,  basket- 
making,  photographing,  framing  and  decorative 
work  is  provided,  and  an  instructor  is  always  at 
hand  to  teach  and  help  the  patients.  Mrs.  Good- 
win each  year  meets  the  cost  of  maintenance  of 
this  most  useful  and  helpful  addition  to  the 
resources  of  the  Sanitarium's  patients.  Apart 
from  the  value  of  the  instruction  they  receive, 
the  relief  from  the  monotony  of  institutional 
existence  makes  Mrs.  Goodwin's  gift  a  most 
welcome  one  to  the  patients  and  the  management. 

The  next  activity  undertaken  by  the  institution 
in  its  development  was  to  educate  as  special 
tuberculosis  nurses  some  of  the  young  women 
patients  in  whom  the  Sanitarium  treatment  had 
arrested  the  disease,  and  thus  fit  them  for  an 
independent  career  of  usefulness  which  does  not 
especially  endanger  their  health.  In  191 2  Mrs. 
Whitelaw  Reid  donated  a  substantial  nurses* 
building  to  start  a  training  school,  as  a  memorial 
to  her  father,  Mr.  D.  Ogden  Mills,  and  two  classes 
have  already  been  graduated  from  this  school 
as  special  tuberculosis  nurses. 

It  is  a  far  cry  from  the  old  women  and  guides 
I  used  to  hire  to  do  the  nursing  of  the  bed-ridden 
in  the  first  years  of  the  Sanitarium,  to  a  graduating 
class  of  thoroughly  trained  nurses  such  as  I  had 

(300) 


before  me  when  I  handed  the  diplomas  on  both 
these  occasions  to  the  graduates.  Not  only  has 
the  Sanitarium  restored  these  young  women  to 
health,  but  it  has  fitted  them  for  a  career  of  inde- 
pendent usefulness  in  which  they  are  likely  to 
remain  well.  Truly  this  has  been  "worth  while." 
These  nurses  readily  find  employment  in  Sara- 
nac  Lake,  or  take  up  institutional  work  elsewhere. 

Mrs.  Reid  also  in  1913-1914  gave  the  Sani- 
tarium an  entire  up-to-date  X-ray  plant,  which  is 
now  doing  excellent  work  for  the  patients  there 
and  the  community  as  well. 

The  administration  department  had  long  had 
to  struggle  with  insufficient  accommodations  that 
had  become  outgrown,  and  in  191 2  this  need  was 
met,  at  a  cost  of  twenty  thousand  dollars,  by  the 
•erection  of  a  service  building  which  had  been 
planned  by  Mr.  Aspinwall  to  meet  the  growing 
requirements  of  the  institution.  This  most  useful 
and  practical  building,  containing  several  cold- 
storage  rooms,  which  can  be  kept  at  any  desired 
temperature,  an  artificial-ice  plant,  dining-rooms 
and  accommodations  for  the  employees,  has 
done  much  to  perfect  and  facilitate  the  work  of 
the  service  department. 

Substantial  and  dignified  stone  and  iron  gates 
at  all  three  entrances  were  presented  by  Mr. 
William  Hall  Penfold  just  before  his  death,  and 
completed  by  his  brother,  Mr.  Edmund  Penfold. 

From  1904  to  19 14  the  yearly  deficit  in  the 
running    expenses,    varying    from    $18,902.58    in 

(301) 


1907  to  $29,047.29  in  1913,  was  met  as  usual, 
principally  by  yearly  subscriptions  and  donations. 

The  growth  of  the  Endowment  Fund  during 
the  past  ten  years  has  kept  pace  with  the  growth 
and  development  of  the  plant  and  other  new 
activities  assumed  by  the  institution.  In  1905— 
1906,  principally  through  the  interest  and  efforts 
of  Dr.  Walter  B.  James  and  Mr.  E.  H.  Harriman^ 
$82,400.00  was  added  to  this  fund,  while  it  grew 
steadily  each  year  by  accretion,  so  that  in  1914 
it  had  reached  a  little  over  six  hundred  thousand 
dollars.  And  yet  I  had  told  Mr.  Stephen  Baker, 
when  I  induced  him  to  take  the  fund  twenty  years 
before — and  I  thought  then  the  institution  never 
would  grow  beyond  its  limited  capacity  at  that 
time — that  all  I  asked  him  to  do  was  to  look  after 
the  fund  until  it  reached  fifty  thousand  dollars. 
It  is  well  that  there  is  apparently  no  prejudice 
in  his  mind  against  "big  business";  and  there 
cannot  be,  for  the  growth  of  the  Endowment  Fund 
has  been  greatly  due  to  his  painstaking  and 
wise  management  of  its  investments. 

The  problems  to  be  met  at  the  Sanitarium  have 
entirely  changed  as  the  years  have  rolled  by.  For 
the  first  twelve  years  all  my  efforts  tended  solely 
to  prove  the  usefulness  of  such  an  institution  by 
the  actual  results  obtained  in  the  treatment  of 
patients.  In  view  of  the  varying  manifestations 
and  course  of  this  protean  disease,  sufficient  proof 
to  convince  a  skeptical  public,  and  a  still  more 
skeptical  profession,  of  necessity  required  a  very 

(302) 


long  time  to  obtain.  To  keep  the  institution  in 
existence  long  enough  to  demonstrate  its  value 
by  the  results  on  the  patients  treated,  occupied 
all  my  energies  for  the  first  twelve  years,  espe- 
cially as  the  securing  of  the  necessary  funds  was 
dependent  on  my  efforts.  Had  it  not  been  for 
the  generous  support  of  my  friends,  and  for  the 
devoted  services  of  my  associates  and  co-workers 
in  both  the  medical  and  administrative  depart- 
ments, and  even  among  the  employees,  it  is 
doubtful  if  all  the  difficulties  which  constantly 
arose  from  the  remoteness  of  the  region,  the 
severity  of  the  climate  and  the  limitation  of  the 
finances  would  not  have  overwhelmed  me. 

The  services  rendered  to  the  Sanitarium  by 
everybody  connected  with  its  management,  includ- 
ing the  trustees,  the  examining  physicians, 
the  resident  physicians,  the  superintendents  and 
their  helpers,  the  nurses  and  even  the  employees 
have  always  been  underpaid  or  not  paid  at  all. 
It  was  this  service  of  love  which  carried  the  day 
in  those  trying  years  of  the  Sanitarium's  strug- 
gling existence,  and  of  late  years  it  is  this  same 
spirit  in  all  who  have  helped  with  the  work  that 
has  built  up  the  institution  to  its  present  state  of 
material  and  financial  permanence. 

It  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  express  here 
my  thanks  individually,  and  I  can  only  do  so  now 
collectively  to  all;  but,  as  I  said,  I  think  it  very 
likely  that  the  discouragements  and  difficulties 
of  the  early  days  would  have  overcome  me  and 

(303) 


made  me  give  up  the  struggle  had  it  not  been  for 
all  the  devoted  help  of  my  friends  and  associates 
in  the  work. 

We  are  told  that  great  is  the  truth,  and  that 
it  will  prevail;  but  at  times  it  is  a  slow  pro- 
cess. For  the  first  six  years  of  the  Sanitarium's 
existence  not  the  slightest  notice  was  taken  of  it. 
In  1 89 1  Dr.  Vincent  Y.  Bowditch  opened  his 
institution  at  Sharon,  Mass.,  and,  within  a 
few  years,  had  emphasized  the  value  of  sana- 
torium methods  by  obtaining  good  results  in  so 
unfavorable  a  climate  as  that  of  the  country  near 
Boston.  In  1895  I  was  much  encouraged  when 
a  committee  was  sent  to  Saranac  Lake  by  the 
Massachusetts  Legislature  to  investigate  the  Sani- 
tarium. This  Commission  reported  favorably 
on  the  results  obtained  and  the  methods  of  treat- 
ment upon  which  they  were  founded.  Appropria- 
tions were  voted  by  the  Massachusetts  legis- 
lature, and  the  State  Sanatorium  for  the  Treat- 
ment of  Incipient  Tuberculosis  was  built  and  its 
doors  were  opened  in  1898 — the  first  State  institu- 
tion of  this  character.  By  that  time  the  value 
of  sanatorium  treatment  was  becoming  generally 
recognized,  and  institutions  were  beginning  to  be 
built  all  over  the  country.  By  1909  three  hundred 
and  fifty-two  private  and  State  institutions  were 
in  operation,  one  hundred  and  two  of  which  had 
sprung  into  existence  during  that  year. 

Now  that  for  some  time  the  sanatorium  treat- 
ment has  been  fully  recognized  and  accepted  as 

(304) 


the  best  method  for  arresting  tuberculosis,  our 
efforts  at  the  institution  of  late  years  have  been 
devoted  toward  the  improvement  of  the  plant 
so  as  to  make  the  buildings  more  convenient, 
better  adapted  to  the  needs  of  the  work,  and  more 
permanent  in  construction;  to  the  perfecting  of 
all  methods  of  diagnosis  and  treatment,  while 
studying  new  methods  that  promise  improvement 
along  these  lines;  to  the  developing  of  new 
activities,  such  as  the  workshop,  the  laboratory, 
the  X-ray  department  and  the  nurses'  training 
school,  and  to  looking  forward  in  the  future  to 
providing  teaching  facilities  for  advanced  students. 
The  aims  of  the  institution  should  now  be  not 
so  much  growth  in  size  as  perfection  in  methods 
and  helpful  activities,  and  spread  of  advanced 
knowledge.  Science  and  philanthropy  must  in 
the  future  as  in  the  past  be  the  watchwords  of 
the  Sanitarium  work,  and  along  these  lines  it 
should  continue  to  progress  steadily.  The  degree 
of  perfection  and  usefulness  it  attains  will  depend 
upon  the  spirit  of  its  workers  and  the  financial 
support  of  its  friends  and  the  public. 
'9 


(305) 


XXVI 

THERE  is  one  more  red-letter  day  in  my  life 
which  I  want  to  record  in  this  little  book — the 
celebration  of  the  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of 
the  Sanitarium's  existence,  on  the  afternoon  of 
February  15,  19 10.  The  date  of  the  proposed 
celebration  had  been  deferred  several  times, 
because  I  was  confined  to  bed  and  would  have 
been  unable  to  be  present;  but  the  preparations 
for  the  great  event,  which  I  got  up  from  bed  to 
take  part  in,  had  been  carefully  kept  from  me, 
and  no  man  ever  had  a  more  wonderful  surprise. 
There  is  so  much  I  should  be  tempted  to  write 
about  in  describing  the  events  of  this  day  that 
I  am  going  to  confine  myself  to  quotations  from 
a  description  written  in  shorthand  by  an  eye- 
witness and  published  in  the  Adirondack  Enter- 
prise at  the  time: 

"The  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  the  founding 
of  the  Adirondack  Cottage  Sanitarium  by  Dr. 
E.  L.  Trudeau  was  celebrated  at  the  sanitarium 
on  Tuesday  afternoon,  February  15,  19 10.  The 
function  was  in  the  form  of  tableaux  and  panto- 
mimes, representing  the  dream  of  Dr.  Trudeau, 

who,  while  fox  hunting  over  ground  now  occupied 

(307) 


by  the  many  buildings  of  the  sanitarium,  pictured 
in  his  mind's  eye  some  of  the  remarkable  things 
which  have  since  been  accomplished.     .     .     . 

"Between  three  and  four  hundred  friends, 
patients  and  former  patients  of  the  Adirondack 
Cottage  Sanitarium,  gathered  at  the  institution.  .  .  . 

"The  pantomimes  given  in  the  amusement 
pavilion  portrayed  the  growth  of  the  sanitarium 
from  the  hunter's  dream,  when  the  idea  crystal- 
lized in  the  mind  of  Dr.  Trudeau,  to  the  present 
day.  They  included  guides,  workmen,  physicians, 
benefactors  of  the  institution,  and  former  and 
present  patients. 

"The  audience  gathered  in  the  hall  and  at  the 
arrival  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Trudeau,  gave  them  a 
welcome  that  will  probably  live  long  in  their 
memory.     .     .     . 

"The  keynote  to  the  tableaux  was  sounded  in 
the  brief  prologue  given  by  David  C.  Twichell, 
M.D.,  who  planned  and  arranged  this  part  of  the 
entertainment.    He  said: 

"'The  effort  has  been  made  in  these  tableaux 
to  reproduce  actual  conditions  as  they  existed 
and,  as  far  as  possible,  to  have  the  actual  persons 
on  the  stage  who  participated  in  the  scenes 
portrayed.'     .     .     . 

"Tableau  I. — 'The  Huntsman's  Dream'  showed 
Dr.  Trudeau,  impersonated  by  Dr.  Charles  C. 
Trembley,  and  Mr.  Fitz  Greene  Hallock,  a  guide, 
and  friend  for  many  years  to  Dr.  Trudeau.  Mr. 
Hallock  in  person  was  on  the  stage,  wearing  the 

(308) 


huntsman's  clothing  and  equipment  of  thirty 
years  ago,  when  he  piloted  Dr.  Trudeau  through 
the  woods  and  over  the  hills  about  Saranac  Lake. 
The  scene  was  the  ground  on  which  the  present 
sanitarium  stands,  then  a  famous  fox  runway. 
The  young  physician,  dressed  for  the  hunt,  falls 
asleep  at  the  watch-ground  and  dreams  a  dream; 
which  the  tableau  presents  in  pictures  thrown 
on  the  screen  by  the  stereopticon.  The  first 
portrays  the  earliest  sanitarium  building  as  it 
appeared  in  1885,  and  this  progresses  into  the 
scene  of  1886,  with  more  buildings,  but  only  a 
ghostly  forecast  of  the  sanitarium  of  today.  The 
three  following  pictures  were  the  unfolding  of 
the  dream  into  the  scenes  of  1900,  1903,  and  finally 
into  the  great  panorama  presented  by  the  institu- 
tion of  today.     .     .     . 

"In  Tableau  II  was  shown  the  'Work  Begun.* 
Among  the  characters  presented  were  Mr.  D.  W. 
Riddle,  treasurer  and  devoted  friend  of  the 
sanitarium  since  its  founding,  and  L.  Kelly,  who 
helped  to  dig  the  foundations  and  who  was  out- 
side superintendent  of  the  institution  for  many 
years.  A  large  number  of  others  were  shown, 
hurrying  along  the  work  of  building  and  founding 
the  sanitarium.     .     .     . 

"The  scene  of  Tableau  III  was  laid  in  Dr. 
Trudeau's  old  office,  and  pictured  the  great  variety 
of  applicants  for  admission  to  the  Adirondack 
Cottage  Sanitarium.  The  types  were  true  to 
facts,    for    among    the   early    applicants    were    a 

(309) 


Chinese  and  an  Indian,  besides  many  other  nearly 
as  curious  and  unexpected  patients,  who  sought 
to  recover  from  tuberculosis  of  the  lungs  of  which 
they  were  victims. 

"Other  tableaux  followed. 

"Dr.  Trudeau  consented  to  say  a  few  words 
at  this  point.  He  walked  upon  the  stage  leading 
by  the  hand  Mr.  D.  W.  Riddle  and  Fitz  Greene 
Hallock,  and  the  three  men  formed  the  historic 
group  of  the  three  pioneers  of  the  institution. 
He  introduced  himself  and  escorts  as  'the  three 
pioneers  in  the  antituberculosis  work  in  Saranac 
Lake.'  The  reception  they  received  was  extraor- 
dinary.    Dr.  Trudeau  spoke  with  great  feeling. 

"His  address  follows: 

"'Ladies  and  Gentlemen: — How  can  I  find 
words  to  express  suitably  my  feelings  on  such  an 
occasion  as  this?  Twenty-five  years  ago  I  dreamed 
a  dream,  and,  lo,  it  has  come  true,  and  we  are 
here  today  to  commemorate  the  realization  of 
this  dream. 

"'When  I  came  to  the  Adirondacks  thirty-five 
years  ago  the  outlook  for  my  accomplishing  any- 
thing in  life  seemed  to  be  hopeless  indeed.  I  was 
an  exile  in  a  country  which  was  both  remote  and 
inaccessible.  I  had  only  an  indifferent  medical 
education;  indifferent  as  compared  with  that  of 
today.  I  had  only  ordinary  intellectual  attain- 
ments. Now  you  may  ask  how  it  was,  in  spite  of 
these  difficulties,  I  accomplished  what  has  been 
done  here. 

(310) 


'"The  first  asset  I  had,  which  carried  me  through 
better  than  anything  else,  was  a  good  wife — the 
best  wife  that  any  man  ever  had;  and  through 
the  long  years  of  discouragement  and  struggle 
she  has  always  furnished  both  inspiration  and 
encouragement.  And  then  I  had  an  unlimited 
fund  of  enthusiasm  and  perseverance,  and  I  had 
faith;  that  kind  of  faith  that  sees  the  goal  and  is 
blind  to  the  obstacles;  faith  in  myself;  faith  in 
my  power  to  do  something,  no  matter  how  little, 
for  a  good  cause;  faith  in  my  friends — and  that 
faith  has  been  reflected  on  me  so  that  they  have 
poured  their  money  into  my  lap  all  these  years 
for  my  work;  faith  in  the  future,  here  and  here- 
after. 

"'Now  that  I  have  come  to  the  end  of  the  road, 
what  more  could  I  ask  than  to  be  permitted  to 
stand  with  you  here  today  and  see  the  realization 
of  my  dream ;  to  look  into  the  faces  of  my  friends 
of  the  pioneer  days,  who  had  faith  in  an  enthu- 
siastic young  doctor,  and  show  them  that  their 
faith  was  not  misplaced;  to  stand  here  and  see 
those  who  have  been  connected  with  this  work 
for  so  many  years — doctors,  nurses,  and  those 
in  the  administration  department — and  who  have 
borne  for  me  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day,  and 
by  their  self-sacrificing  devotion  have  made  this 
great  work  what  it  is?  And  what  is  better  than  to 
see  all  about  me  those  whose  lives  have  been 
saved  and  prolonged,  and  to  know  that  this 
saving  and  prolonging  of  life,  because  of  what  we 

(311) 


have  striven  to  do  here  all  these  years,  has  reached 
across  the  continent  and  brought  hope  and  life 
to  those  who  hitherto  were  hopeless? 

"'I  thank  all  of  you  who  have  prepared  this 
beautiful  celebration  for  me;  I  thank  you  for  the 
honor  you  have  done  me;  but  this  honor  and 
every  other  honor  which  my  fellow-men  have 
seen  fit  to  accord  to  me,  I  cast  at  the  feet  of  one 
who  deserves  them  much  better  than  I  do,  because 
without  her  I  could  have  done  nothing — my 
good  wife.  *     .     .     . 

"Following  Dr.  Trudeau's  address  the  scene 
changed  to  the  parlor  of  the  Sanitarium,  whither 
all  made  their  way  and  where  the  reception  to 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  Trudeau  took  place. 

"A  book,  a  beautiful  example  of  the  binder's 
art,  made  by  Miss  Marion  Sloan  at  the  sanitarium 
workshop,  and  containing  congratulatory  cards 
from  one  thousand  former  patients  whose  lives 
have  been  prolonged  by  the  treatment  at  the 
Sanitarium,  was  presented  to  Dr.  Trudeau  by 
Dr.  E.  R.  Baldwin.     .     .     . 

"  In  presenting  the  book  of  congratulatory  cards 
to  Dr.  Trudeau,  Dr.  Baldwin  said: 

"'Dr.  Trudeau — ladies  and  gentlemen: — In  be- 
half of  the  committee  which  has  arranged  this 
celebration,  I  desire  to  thank  everyone  who  has 
participated  in  it,  and  especially  those  of  the  old 
patients  and  friends  who  have  so  eagerly  and 
spontaneously  seized  this  occasion  to  give  homage 
to  Dr.  Trudeau.     .     .     . 

(312) 


'"It  is  an  event  deserving  of  far  more  eloquence 
than  I  am  capable  of  rendering  to  you.  Consider, 
if  you  will,  the  contrast  in  these  twenty-five 
years:  only  the  modest  equipment  here  and  two 
patients,  while  it  is  estimated  that  over  117,000 
received  care  in  this  country  last  year.  Today 
there  are  386  sanatoria  and  hospitals  which  owe 
their  inception  directly  or  indirectly  to  Dr.  Tru- 
deau's  influence.     .     .     . 

'"Dr.  Trudeau,  this  occasion  would  be  incom- 
plete without  an  expression  from  the  many  former 
patients  of  this  institution,  who  could  not  be 
present,  but  who  desired  to  send  their  greeting 
to  you.  The  committee  has  therefore  invited 
all  who  wished  to  send  such  a  message,  to  do  so 
in  a  way  that  could  be  presented  to  you  as  a 
souvenir  of  this  event.  To  this  end  cards  have 
been  prepared,  upon  which  the  sentiments  of  your 
patients  have  been  written  by  them  and  placed 
in  this  volume. 

"'I  have  the  great  pleasure  and  honor  to  pre- 
sent it  to  you  in  behalf  of  the  graduates  of  the 
Adirondack  Cottage  Sanitarium,  who  take  this 
means  to  rise  and  call  you  blessed."* 

The  book,  one  of  my  most  prized  possessions, 
contains  one  thousand  cards  written  by  patients 
who  had  recovered  their  health  at  the  Sanitarium, 
expressing  gratitude,  each  in  his  own  way. 

Truly,  did  any  man  ever  have  such  a  reward  for 
work,  the  very  doing  of  which  was  an  ample  reward ! 

During  all  these  years  it  has  not  only  been  at  the 

(313) 


Sanitarium  and  the  Laboratory  that  the  tubercu- 
losis problem  has  had  to  be  met,  but  the  village  of 
Saranac  Lake  has  been  constantly  called  upon 
to  adapt  itself  to  new  conditions,  which  have 
transformed  it  from  a  guides'  settlement  to  a 
busy  town  and  much-frequented  health  resort. 
For  thirty  years  an  ever-increasing  number  of 
invalids  have  been  steadily  settling  down  in  Saranac 
Lake,  and  the  town  has  now  practically  developed 
into  a  cottage  sanatorium  on  a  large  scale  in  order 
to  meet  the  requirements  of  an  ever-growing 
invalid  population  from  all  classes  of  society, 
from  the  affluent  to  the  penniless.  For  the  rich 
it  now  affords  beautiful  and  even  luxurious  homes, 
which  have  been  designed  and  built  with  a  special 
view  to  the  hygienic  care  and  requirements  of 
the  invalid,  and  for  carrying  out  with  the  greatest 
convenience  and  comfort  the  open-air  method 
of  treatment  in  the  rigorous  climate  of  these 
mountains.  These  features  are  to  be  found  more 
or  less  developed  even  in  the  more  humble  board- 
ing places  which  abound  in  the  town. 

An  efficient  Board  of  Health  has  instituted 
modern  methods  of  guarding  against  infection. 
Rules  and  regulations  to  that  effect  are  exposed 
in  public  places  and  enforced  in  the  town,  and 
disinfection  and  fumigation  of  rooms  recently 
occupied  by  the  sick  is  made  compulsory.  These 
measures  have  apparently  been  efficient. 

The  dread  of  infection  which  has  been  so  played 
upon  as  to  make  the  average  individual  terror- 

(314) 


stricken  at  the  idea  of  coming  near  Saranac  Lake 
has  been  practically  demonstrated  to  be  a  gross 
exaggeration,  for  the  death-rate  from  tuberculosis 
among  the  native  residents — and  what  is  still 
more,  among  the  twelve  hundred  or  more  school 
children  of  Saranac  Lake — is  less  than  the  death- 
rate  among  adults  £ind  children  in  most  similar 
towns  in  the  State.  Children  are  much  more 
susceptible  to  tuberculous  infection  than  adults, 
and  the  risk  in  Saranac  Lake  cannot  be  much 
greater  than  elsewhere,  or  it  would  soon  become 
very  apparent  among  the  school  children. 

This  is  especially  convincing  when  we  consider 
the  death-rate  among  very  young  children  under 
five  years  of  age.  These  are  the  most  sensitive 
material  to  the  presence  of  tuberculous  infection 
that  we  know  of. 

The  State  Health  Supervisor,  Dr.  J.  A.  Smith, 
tells  me  that  only  twenty-four  deaths  have 
occurred  in  Saranac  Lake  of  tuberculous  menin- 
gitis in  children  under  five  years  of  age  during 
the  past  eighteen  years.  Thirteen  of  the  twenty- 
four  were  children  who  had  tuberculous  parents, 
from  whom  they  most  probably  contracted  the 
disease.  In  one  case  the  state  of  health  of  the 
parents  was  doubtful.  This  would  leave  only 
ten  cases  during  the  past  eighteen  years  in  children 
who  had  healthy  parents. 

These  figures  speak  for  themselves  and  cannot 
well  be  ignored.  I  would  recommend  them  to 
the  consideration  of  unthinking  and  terror-stricken 

(315) 


laymen,  as  well  as  to  physicians.  How  little  those 
who  so  often  speak  disparagingly  of  Saranac 
Lake,  because  it  harbors  so  many  invalids,  know 
of  the  burden  of  human  misery,  not  its  own, 
which  this  small  and  remote  town  has  carried 
and  ministered  to  as  best  it  could  for  so  many 
years!  The  selfishness,  cruelty  or  stupidity  of 
terror-stricken  relatives  and  friends  which  urges 
a  poor  and  hopelessly  ill  consumptive,  without 
money,  to  come  to  die  in  so  remote  a  region, 
among  strangers,  only  adds  loneliness  and  many 
discomforts  to  his  unfortunate  lot,  and  an  addi- 
tional burden  to  the  ever  over-taxed  charity  of 
the  town. 

My  associates  and  the  residents  of  Saranac 
Lake  have  not  been  unmindful  of  the  poor  invalid 
who  comes  here  to  struggle  for  health,  sorely  in 
need  of  advice  and  assistance.  Through  the 
formation  of  the  Society  for  the  Control  of  Tuber- 
culosis, inaugurated  by  Dr.  Lawrason  Brown, 
an  intelligent  and  well-organized  effort  is  put 
forward  to  help  all  invalids  and  strangers  in  need 
of  advice  and  assistance.  This  Society,  under 
the  management  of  Mr.  F.  L.  Fairchild,  has 
done  noble  work  for  many  years;  a  work  which, 
though  it  may  not  be  blazoned  among  the  annals 
of  great  accomplishments,  efficiently  represents 
the  practical  application  of  the  great  gospel  of 
unselfishness  to  one  of  the  most  crying  needs  of 
stricken  humanity.  A  beautiful  feature  of  Saranac 
Lake  and  its  problems  is  that  in  the  meeting  of 

(316) 


these,  which  the  world  turns  from  with  dread  and 
discouragement,  the  visitors  who  have  taken  up 
their  residence  in  Saranac  Lake  find  life  here 
satisfying,  filled  with  interests,  and  surrounded 
by  an  atmosphere  of  friendliness,  good  feeling  and 
cheerfulness  which  is  not  found  to  the  same  degree 
anywhere  else. 

As  I  look  back  on  my  life,  ever  since  that  day  in 
1866  when  my  brother  came  to  me  sick  at  Newport, 
tuberculosis  looms  up  as  an  ever-present  and 
relentless  foe.  It  robbed  me  of  my  dear  ones, 
and  brought  me  the  first  two  great  sorrows  of  my 
life;  it  shattered  my  health  when  I  was  young  and 
strong,  and  relegated  me  to  a  remote  region, 
where  ever  since  I  have  witnessed  its  withering 
blight  laid  upon  those  about  me,  and  stood  at 
the  death-beds  of  many  of  its  victims  whom  I 
had  learned  to  love.  Of  late  it  has  condemned 
me  to  years  of  chronic  invalidism,  helplessness 
and  physical  misery  and  suffering. 

And  yet  the  struggle  with  tuberculosis  has 
brought  me  experiences  and  left  me  recollections 
which  I  never  could  have  known  otherwise,  and 
which  I  would  not  exchange  for  the  wealth  of  the 
Indies!  While  struggling  to  save  others,  it  has 
enabled  me  to  make  the  best  friends  a  man  ever  had. 

From  my  patients  who  have  recovered  I  have 
learned  much,  and  this  contact  with  them  has 
brought  me  rewards  which  are  priceless  to  me  now. 
To  look  about  me  on  those  whom  I  have  helped 

(317) 


in  the  hour  of  need,  and,  even  though  in  a  very 
slight  degree,  to  have  been  instrumental  in 
restoring  many  to  health  and  active  lives  of  use- . 
fulness,  and  to  feel  daily  their  gratitude  and  love, 
is  a  joyful  heritage  indeed,  which  endures  in  a 
world  where  all  else  passes  away,  and  which 
brings  some  contentment  and  peace  in  hours  of 
physical  misery  and  discouragement. 

To  see  the  Sanitarium,  which  I  have  taken  part 
in  creating,  daily  extending  a  helpful  hand  to 
hundreds  at  a  time  when  help  may  mean  health, 
cheering,  saving  and  restoring  life,  is  indeed  a 
reward  far  beyond  all  material  rewards  the  world 
has  to  offer. 

But  there  are  other  experiences,  which  relate  to 
those  patients  at  whose  bedsides  I  have  stood, 
who  have  undergone  long  years  of  enforced  physical 
and  mental  suffering,  and  often  grinding  poverty  as 
well,  while  they  fought  a  fight  which  was  from 
the  first  doomed  to  be  a  losing  one  for  them; 
and  their  experiences  have  shown  me  glimpses  of 
the  spiritual  in  man,  and  brought  me  a  larger 
and  more  precious  message  than  even  the  grati- 
tude and  affection  of  those  who  have  recovered. 
From  these  I  have  learned  that  the  conquest  of 
Fate  is  not  by  struggling  against  it,  not  by  trying 
to  escape  from  it,  but  by  acquiescence;  that  it 
is  often  through  men  that  we  come  to  know  God; 
that  spiritual  courage  is  of  a  higher  type  than 
physical  courage;  and  that  it  takes  a  higher  type 
of  courage  to  fight  bravely  a  losing  than  a  winning 

(318) 


MERCIES  "GLORIA    VICTIS' 


fight,  especially  if  the  struggle  from  the  first  is 
evidently  a  hopeless  one,  and  is  protracted  for  years. 

These  patients  represent  the  sort  of  victory 
Mercie  tried  to  immortalize  in  his  wonderful 
statue,  "Gloria  Victis",  which  he  was  inspired 
to  create  in  1871  after  the  French  nation  had  been 
crushed  by  Germany.  The  statue  represents  a 
young  gladiator  who  has  just  received  his  death 
blow  while  facing  his  foe.  As  he  falls,  his  broken 
sword  still  in  his  hand,  the  figure  of  Victory,  with 
great  outstretched  wings,  swoops  down  and  carries 
him  upward  in  her  arms. 

The  victories  the  world  acclaims  and  rewards 
are  the  victories  of  success  and  achievement  and 
triumph  over  the  material  forces  of  the  universe; 
but  the  victories  of  the  spirit,  the  victories  of  the 
vanquished,  it  takes  little  heed  of.  And  yet  the 
record  of  the  ages  shows  that  such  victories 
require  the  highest  type  of  courage,  have  been  as 
enduring  as  any  material  achievements,  and 
still  speak  their  great  message  to  the  higher  life 
of|man,  with  a  clearness  which  neither  time  nor 
the  acclaim  of  the  successful  conquerors  in  life 
can  dim. 

Speak,  History — ^who  are  Life's  Victors? 

Unroll  thy  long  annals  and  say; 
Are  they  those  whom  the  world  calls  the  victors 

Who  won  the  success  of  the  day? 

The  martyrs,  or  Nero?    The  Spartans 

Who  fell  at  Thermopylae's  tryst? 
Or  the  Persians  and  Xerxes — his  judges, 

Or  Socrates? — Pilate  or  Christ? 
(319) 


The  statue  of  "Gloria  Victis"  typifies  many 
victories  I  have  seen  won  in  Saranac  Lake  by 
those  whom  I  had  learned  to  love,  the  victory 
of  the  spirit  over  the  body;  the  victories  that 
demand  acquiescence  in  worldly  failure,  and  in 
the  supreme  sacrifice  of  life  itself  as  part  of  their 
achievement;  the  victory  of  the  Nazarene,  which 
ever  speaks  its  great  message  to  the  ages. 

As  typical  of  struggles  with  which  I  was  familiar, 
long  struggles  in  which  even  the  gloom  of  death 
could  not  smother  the  triumphant  note,  and 
which  had  taught  me  that  the  Spirit  of  God  may 
dwell  in  man — a  precious  message  indeed — Mer- 
cie's  statue  was  always  my  favorite  statue,  and  I 
tried  long  to  secure  a  copy  of  it;  but  failing  in  this, 
I  had  a  small  photograph  of  it  framed  which 
stood  on  my  desk.  One  afternoon  in  December, 
1913,  two  ladies,  both  strangers  to  me,  sent 
up  their  cards.  They  had  a  sister  in  Saranac 
Lake  and  had  called  to  ask  me  some  questions 
about  the  place.  One  of  them  at  once  noticed 
the  little  photograph  of  Mercie's  statue  on  my 
desk  and  asked  me  about  it,  as  she  said  she  had 
seen  the  original.  I  told  her  what  it  had  meant 
to  me,  and  that  as  I  could  not  procure  a  small 
reproduction  of  the  statue,  I  kept  this  little 
photograph  on  my  desk.  After  a  few  moments 
of  pleasant  talk  the  ladies  departed,  and  two 
weeks  later  I  received  from  Gorham's  a  fine  bronze 
statue  of  the  "Gloria  Victis",  with  a  beautiful  note 
stating  that  the  three  sisters — two  of  them  artists 

(320) 


— were  so  happy  to  feel  that  it  was  their  privilege 
to  find  a  copy  of  the  statue,  "Gloria  Victis",  which 
had  meant  so  much  to  me  and  which  I  desired 
to  own.  They  were  sending  it  to  me  with  their 
best  wishes. 

Truly,  life  is  full  of  beautiful  surprises,  and  the 
miraculous  advent  of  the  bronze  "Gloria  Victis" 
to  Saranac  Lake,  where  so  many  of  the  victories 
it  typifies  are  fought  and  won,  should  be  a  fitting 
mile-stone  with  which  to  end  this  long  journey. 

And  now  that  my  life,  like  this  little  book,  is 
near  its  end,  and  both  are  a  tale  that  is  told,  I 
am  looking  back  quietly  over  the  long  years  which 
have  passed  so  quickly.  Dr.  Richard  Cabot, 
to  whom  my  gratitude,  as  well  as  that  of  many 
others,  is  due  for  writing  his  last  book,  tells  us 
convincingly  that  the  things  men  live  by  are 
"work  and  play  and  love  and  worship."  Well, 
if  this  be  true — and  it  surely  is — I  have  indeed 
had  a  full  life;  full  of  the  joy  of  play,  and  the 
struggle  and  zest  of  work,  and  overwhelmingly 
full  of  human  love — a  wealth  of  love  which  has 
endured,  and  is  still  making  life  precious  to  me 
every  hour;  full  of  the  aspirations  and  ceaseless 
strivings  of  the  spirit  for  expression  in  worship, 
ever  groping  to  know  God,  and  ever  sustained 
through  long  periods  of  gloom  by  too  swiftly 
fading  glimpses  of  the  Heavenly  Vision. 

Certainly  all  this  is  to  live,  and  I  have  lived  a 
full  life  and  must  be  content  to  await  patiently 
the  end  of  the  great  Mystery  of  Existence,  clinging 

(321) 


to  the  faith  to  which  I  have  ever  clung,  surrounded 
by  good  friends,  and  cheered  by  all  the  recollec- 
tions of  everything  life  has  brought  me  and  the 
great  lessons  it  has  taught  me,  which  make  the 
sunset  for  me  glow  with  unusual  warmth  and 
brilliancy.    After  all,  I  can  truly  say 

With  their  triumphs  and  their  glories  and  the  rest. 
Love  is  best. 


(322) 


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